Chapter Seventeen
“All I’m saying is the pigeon should know bus drivers are unionized. How is it appropriate to have a children’s book glorifying a scab?”
The attendants of Miss Nekesa’s Thursday-night Story Time stared at the speaker blankly.
“I likes to eat my scabs,” Amos offered.
Miss Nekesa, head librarian of the East Avenue branch of the public library, glared over her copy of Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!
at Denis, who had interrupted her for the third time.
Denis, who sat cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of a group of wet-headed children as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Story time was the endcap of the traditional Thursday-night routine for a gaggle of neighborhood four- and five-year-olds and was preceded by tofu hot dogs at Dogtown, then swim classes at the Y, after which most kids changed into their pj’s instead of back into their school clothes.
Josie and Amos were regulars at Story Time.
From the exchange of scowls between Miss Nekesa and Denis, tonight was the first time he’d been to Story Time but not the first time he’d been in the library.
Josie glanced at the glass vestibule in the front of the library but no Pax or Maddy were in sight.
Was this even legal, letting Denis out unsupervised among the general population? Dammit. He was going to blow Number Five’s cover.
“Mr. Denis, we wait until the book is finished before we ask questions,” Miss Nekesa said. With doe-like brown eyes, a snub nose, and a smile that lit her face, Miss Nekesa held a goddess-like place in the eyes of the children—and most of the adults—who frequented this branch.
The fact Denis had interrupted her during story time earned him the awe and enmity of the crowd of kindergarteners surrounding him.
Denis huffed, but even he must have had some sort of survival instincts, because he held his tongue until Miss Nekesa finished the story.
When he tried to restart a discussion about the connection between union busting and the Freemasons, he was quickly shut down by the little girl to his left, who explained he hadn’t held up a hand first, so he didn’t get to talk.
“Oh, I have to signal my subservience to the institutional leadership if I want my opinion to be heard?” he retorted.
“You stayed past your turn on the computer and Miss Nekesa had to give you a red checkmark,” the little girl said matter-of-factly. “You’re lucky she lets you sit on the alphabet carpet for story time and not on the fruit carpet for kids who can’t listen to directions.”
Josie was saved from intervening by the little girl’s mother, who’d caught sight of her daughter chastising an unfamiliar adult and come to scoop the child up and hustle her out the doors. The rest of the kids slowly drifted away after picking their allotted three picture books.
Having nabbed the coveted beanbag chair, Amos would stay put until the library closed if Josie let him.
He sat contentedly with a pile of Busytown books, searching the illustrations for Lowly Worm and making up a story to go along with them while squirming around and enjoying the satisfying crunching sound beneath his butt.
“As a woman of color, I would think you of all people would promote children’s literature upholding the importance of unions,” Denis whined.
Josie cast one last glance outside in case help was coming, then turned her attention back to Denis. He’d left the carpet and now stood in front of Miss Nekesa in a confrontational pose, arms crossed, tinfoil-hatted head tipped back so he could glower.
Miss Nekesa, for her part, appeared nonplussed by Denis’s scolding, looking every inch a cool librarian from the blue-and-silver-rhinestone pin at her throat to her glow-in-the-dark star-print skirt falling in neat folds from her hips to mid-calf.
“Tell me more about what I should do as a woman of color,” she said dryly. “I find it fascinating coming from a White man.”
If by “White,” she meant gray?
If Josie hadn’t known about Denis’s gnomic origins, would she have seen clearly what he was? Did Miss Nekesa not wonder about his skin and his hats and his general…gnomeishness?
“We’ll see what you say when I show up to the main library’s Community Input Forum next week,” Denis countered. “I am organizing a large group of constituents who share my concerns about the messages these Story Time readings promote.”
A mental image of members from the tenants’ association piling into the downtown library’s meeting room and quarrelling over the propriety of Mo Willems books sent a shiver of fear down Josie’s spine.
“Uh,” Josie blurted, completely at a loss about how to defuse the situation. It couldn’t be a good idea for Denis to make himself the center of attention. “Uh, Miss Nekesa. Thank you for story time tonight. I wish there had been amazing books like the Pigeon books when I was growing up.”
Miss Nekesa appeared relieved at Josie’s interruption. “Yes, Mo Willems is a national treasure, isn’t he?”
Josie nodded vigorously and Denis turned his scowl on her.
“Huh,” he said. “What kind of literature was your generation force-fed that you see union-busting pigeons as literary heroes?”
A flush heated Josie’s face and she clenched her fist at his dismissive tone.
“The message of Pigeon is when you make a promise, you have a responsibility to follow through no matter what arguments people might make,” Josie explained. “It’s fun for kids to be the ones who say no for a change.”
Denis issued a derisory snort in response but signaled his disinterest in further argument with a one-shouldered shrug.
“Amos and I were heading home,” Josie said, taking advantage of her momentum. “Did you want to walk back with us, Denis?”
Josie did not want Denis anywhere near her and Amos, but it wasn’t a good idea to leave him here with Miss Nekesa, either. He was bound to say something that couldn’t be explained away.
Her resolution nearly deserted her when Denis’s gaze fixed on Amos, now singing to himself while hanging upside down on the beanbag. Surely, if the guy was dangerous, Pax would have told her.
“I’m not leaving,” Denis declared.
“Everyone is welcome to stay until closing,” Miss Nekesa said in a tight voice, no doubt thinking how lucky she was to have chosen a public-facing job at the library. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to help Mr. Raj check out some books.”
Denis stared at Miss Nekesa’s back with a frown, then turned his attention back to Josie.
“It’s not working, you know,” he said.
“No,” she said honestly. “I don’t know. What’s not working?”
Denis crossed his arms and tapped his foot, the picture of impatience. “You. You’re not helping. The golden needle hasn’t moved an inch.”
This was one of those times Josie wished she could channel her coworker Barb’s energy. What would Denis do if Josie told him to fuck off?
The thought was equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
“It might have worked if someone could tell me what exactly I’m supposed to be doing,” she snapped, the closest Josie could come to a “fuck off.”
As soon as she said it, Josie wished she could take it back.
Ridiculous as it was to feel responsible for something she hadn’t known about or offered to do, Josie nevertheless struggled to breathe through a surge of guilt.
When Pax had explained about the—well, there was no way for her to pronounce what they called the gauge measuring Number Five’s fuel—he’d assured Josie she didn’t have to find any magical grails or solve ancient riddles.
She just needed to trust Number Five.
Hard to figure out how to trust an apartment building but Josie had promised to try.
Now Denis was over here insinuating Josie was supposed to be doing something and not only that, was doing it wrong?
“How am I supposed to know what you should do?” Denis asked. “Those big shots like Maddy and Raphe, they’d never let someone like me near the precious Wayside Handbook. They think I’m no danger to anyone, just a cute little gnome.”
“No one thinks you’re a cute little anything, Denis,” Josie said dryly.
Luckily, Denis was the right amount of self-absorbed not to take offense, assuming Josie agreed with his complaints.
“I have places to go, little missy,” he snarled. “Important places. I am an important person where I’m from.”
This is where Josie would usually tell Denis of course he was important and she would do whatever it took to get him to that important place.
Except.
The way he said it, he implied Josie was not important.
Dammit, she was important. To her son. To herself. Maybe to a few other folks.
Screw Denis for poking at her sore spots.
“I have lives depending on me as well, Denis,” Josie shot back. “I do the best I can do with what I’m given. No. I do better than most with what I’m given. Back off and trust Number Five.”
“Whatever,” was his stimulating retort.
Whatever? Where were the high fives and trumpets? Josie had clapped back for the first time in forever and hadn’t been slapped down by an immediate wave of guilt when she did it.
That felt awesome.
Maybe Denis would have a little more respect the next time he spoke to her. Maybe he could treat her like a fellow tenant and not like an interloper.
Maybe they could someday be friends.
“I’m going out and getting drunk.” Denis readjusted his cap and stalked toward the exit.
Okay.
Maybe not.
Either way, the thought of Denis getting drunk and going off on a rant did not sound like a good idea. Damn Pax for not having a cell phone.
Josie hustled Amos into his coat and jiggled with anxiety as Mr. Raj checked out Amos’s books. Denis had already left. She spotted him through the window, trudging down the slushy sidewalk.
“Mom, I can have a snack?” Amos asked as they made their way up the walkway to the entrance of Number Five. “I can have some carrots, or celery, or ice cream?”
“Sure, buddy,” Josie said, distracted. As soon as they entered the lobby, the lights flickered, and a row of mailboxes rattled. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Pax real quick.”