Chapter 2
Henry
One afternoon, when I was nine years old and sitting cross-legged on the school library floor, cutting out small paper people, I asked our librarian a question.
“Mrs. Connolly, what does a librarian actually do?”
Sitting next to me, my brother Jacob scoffed.
“They obviously sort books, duh, Henry.”
Mrs. Connolly looked at us thoughtfully.
“Well yes, we do sort lots of books, Jacob. But there are many other things a librarian does.”
“Like what?” I pressed.
“Perhaps the most important thing we do is to help people find what they are looking for.”
For a very long time after, I considered her answer.
So long, in fact, that I carried it with me all the way through school, through college, and into my adult life, eventually becoming Everston’s resident librarian.
I made it my policy to help people find what they were searching for, no matter what it was.
Over the years, I have found many things: a family’s beloved missing border collie, sweaters in almost every color, answers to math equations, textbooks from one hundred years ago.
I’ve taught more than half our local retirement home how to use computers and iPhones; I’ve helped with dozens of school projects; I’ve organized scavenger hunts, trivia nights, coding classes, free lunches for the homeless.
I’ve printed life-size posters of various pop stars for fans, was once asked if I could supply fake IDs, and I’ve called 911 on more than a few occasions.
I’ve heard, seen, and done it all—I have always tried to find the answers for people, because that’s just what librarians do.
We search, we find, and we deliver. In my own life, though, the answers haven’t come so easily.
I’m still searching, sifting through endless questions, hoping to find something—anything—that gives grief meaning.
But the truth is, there are just some questions that don’t have answers.
Everston had been home my whole life. It was small-town America, engulfed by steep peaks that touched the sky.
The last operational mine closed in the early nineties, and since then, we stayed alive mostly through tourists filtering through the town on their way to Colorado backcountry.
On Main Street, you could find all the things that made Everston, well, Everston.
There was the Hobby Shop and Smithey’s Furniture Store, and there was House of Glamor selling prom dresses, some of which had been on the rack since the eighties.
There was one movie theater left in town, which mostly played black-and-white films, and there was a motel called the Green Leaf, run by Barbara Matthews, who won Colorado’s state beauty pageant in the seventies.
There was an old antique store filled with oddities and knickknacks, and paintings by our local artist Merrill, who is ninety-two years old and still judging our annual pickle-eating contest. We had Sam’s Diner (owned by, if you couldn’t guess, Sam), with checkered floors, red leather booths, and drip coffee.
There were three bars, a café, and an auto repair shop that gave you a free donut every time you had your vehicle serviced.
If you headed farther into town, there was a church, painted white with a blue door, with bluebells growing in the gardens around it.
There was a small fairground with a permanent Ferris wheel that lit up every night; the other rides came and went with the county’s various fairs, with staff arriving from miles away to set up rides and games.
We had a school that housed elementary and middle school students, with a tiny high school next door.
Our fire station and sheriff’s office were combined—if you called one, you were just as likely to get someone from the other department—and the sheriff and fire chief had both been there since before I was born.
There was no hospital in town, just old Dr. Williams, who was hard of hearing.
He could wrap a sprained ankle and reset broken bones, diagnose the flu, and hand out cough drops like they were candy, but that was about it.
For anything worse, you’d have to head to the town over for a hospital.
There was no McDonald’s to be found here, no Walmart or Home Depot, but there was Eddie’s Hardware Store and Pat’s Grocer, an alpine ski shop and gift shops.
However, I believed that the greatest place in the whole town, even if I were a little biased, was the library.
Everston Public Library was not a grand building that towered over the main square.
It certainly didn’t have marble flooring, spiral staircases, or stained-glass windows like some libraries in giant cities.
In fact, the building used to be a bakery until it was bought by the town, renovated, and turned into what it was today.
Although, from time to time, both myself and patrons alike would swear we could still smell fresh bread in the air.
Ask anyone from Everston and they would tell you that our town was the heart of the high country, but if you asked me, I’d say Everston Library contained all the heart we needed.
The library sat on a corner of Main Street; an alleyway separated it from the Hobby Shop and the library’s parking lot.
I liked to arrive by seven thirty every morning.
In those early hours, the library was still and silent, and I liked to imagine that it was asleep and softly dreaming.
This morning was no exception, despite the cold chill in the air.
There was a coffee shop across the road, and the grinders had been going since before dawn, singing out to the brick and stone buildings.
The smell of coffee beans wafted into the street as I parked directly in front of the library and headed toward the front doors.
Everston’s businesses had taken to repainting the exteriors of their shops in the last few years and, as a result, Main Street had ended up looking rather colorful.
When I saw this, I also petitioned to have the library painted.
Unfortunately, the paint shop mixed up the colors, so we were left with bright terra-cotta bricks with teal green finishes. I felt like it only added to the charm.
Beside the front doors was a large metal box with a slot and a sign that read Book Returns.
I had found all sorts of things in the library return box—trash, Ping-Pong balls, Barbie dolls, diapers, even half a cedar branch once.
I had tried all sorts of preventatives, including nice signs that said For Library Books Only!
and an old webcam that I fashioned into a mock security camera, but people still put all sorts of things into the slot.
The worst, of course, was the occasional firecracker.
This morning, however, I noticed a piece of paper stating Read Me duct-taped to the front of the box.
Curious, I peeled the paper off and opened its folds.
Will be in today. Need to negotiate.
I had received notes like this before—I can’t find the book, sorry; I accidentally spilled my coffee on the book; My dog ate the textbook; If I bring my own headphones, do I still need to check out audiobooks?
—and also some rather colorful book reviews, but I had to wonder what someone possibly needed to negotiate with me.
Shrugging, I unlocked the front doors and reached over and hit the main power switch. The lights slowly flickered on, and the library awoke. The library had undergone many changes over the years, but one thing I always kept was a banner that hung above the entryway. It said: All Are Welcome.
After placing my things behind the reception desk, I made my way to the staff room, powering up the coffee machine and retrieving my mug from the cupboard.
I was perhaps the only person on our staff who used the coffee machine for tea and not coffee.
The machine whirred to life, rumbling and pouring the hot water into my mug, and I dunked a tea bag several times for good measure.
I relished those first few morning sips.
“Morning, Henry.”
I glanced up as Lana, the library’s assistant director, popped her head through the door to greet me. Lana was in her late twenties, and she’d been my colleague and friend for the past five years, a steady presence in the library and an expert at keeping things running smoothly.
“Morning, Lana. You’re here early.”
“Pulled up just after you! I thought I’d better get a start on those final Imagination Week programs.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I said. Our Imagination Week programs were always very popular; it was an entire week dedicated to creativity and the books we loved.
There was dressing up and events and it was all a lot of fun, but the prospect of how many schoolchildren would be funneling through the library over the next week sent a small shiver down my spine.
“Let me know when you’ve finished. I’ll run the final programs by the board, and then we should be all set!”
I wandered over to investigate the contents of the fridge, searching for the other half of a bagel I had left the other day, and making a mental note to clean out any other bits of old food.
“Do you know what you’re dressing up as?” Lana asked.
I glanced up, a bit sheepish.
“I’m thinking Paddington Bear because I have an old Halloween costume I could reuse.”
“Oh, but that’s cute,” Lana said. “The kids will love it. I’m thinking Ms. Frizzle.”
I grinned. “You know, I think Dev would go as the Magic School Bus if you baked some of those chocolate chip cookies for him.”
She shook her head.
“He would do anything for those cookies.”
Our tech assistant Dev was a ball of fun, and he really would do anything for Lana’s chocolate chip cookies.