8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
I t’s a short stroll down Main Street to the Rocosa Library. Quaint little shops catch my eye as I pass, beckoning me in with their cutesy window displays. It’s not long before my willpower disintegrates, and I dip inside one to purchase a porcelain floral vase for Mami’s birthday.
As soon as I exit, I’m cornered by a small group of little old ladies in matching pink jogging suits. Their names are embroidered on their front shirt pockets. The mixture of all their flowery perfumes overpowers anything else, my eyes watering from the intensity.
Not that I’m usually frightened of the elderly, but something about being outnumbered and caged in has my heart rate spiking. Is this the neighborhood watch Julia warned me about?
“Good afternoon,” I say politely, trying to edge past them.
One of the ladies steps forward to block my exit. The pocket of her fluorescent jacket reads “Eden.” She lifts her thick, dark shades into her mop of gray hair while she eyes me through another pair of glasses still perched on her nose. “Are you the one Birdie is looking for?”
It sounds more like an accusation than a question.
Birdie? Not sure who that is... or if that’s a bird-watching code.
“I’m not sure. I’m Maya.”
“Are you this mystery girl we’re supposed to be searching for?”
I blink. “I—I don’t think so.”
“Just to be safe, maybe you tell us a little more about yourself.”
Once I explain in detail who I am, why I’m here, and how long I’m staying and where, they are nothing but sweet smiles. Meanwhile, my shopping bag is practically slipping from my sweaty fingers.
Eden loops her arm through mine—like the thirty-minute interrogation never happened—to escort me the rest of the way to the library. Otherwise known as ten steps across the street. The rest of the ladies follow behind us like a gaggle of pink geese, each one talking over the others that I can’t keep up.
“Oh, we’ve heard about you,” says a lady with a matching pink scarf around her neck.
“A librarian! What an odd career choice,” the tallest one in the back says.
“Your curly hair is so full and thick. Is that natural?” asks a soft-spoken woman with bright red lipstick.
“My granddaughter loves to read and lives in Golden too. Her name is Jessica. Do you know her?” says the one on my right with “Kitty” on her pocket.
“Are you married? My son divorced last month. I could give you his number,” says another, their faces beginning to blur together.
I swallow nervously and eye the library door in desperation.
“Ladies, ladies.” Eden holds up her hands to silence them. “Too many questions at once. She’ll think we never have visitors in Rocosa.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome though. Are you all in a club or something?”
“Oh, yes. We play bingo every other Thursday at the church. But we also wear these on our daily walks when we patrol the streets.”
“We can’t be too careful, you know,” Eden says. “The sheriff can’t be everywhere at once, so we self-appointed ourselves as deputies to keep an eye on things.”
“I caught one of the kids skipping school once. Not on my watch, young man!” says the woman whose pocket reads “Myrtle.”
Struck by inspiration, I turn to address all the ladies behind me. “Do you all use the library here often?”
Their chuckles are concerning.
“No, sweetie. Not unless you are looking for the dusty old tomes.”
“They don’t have new releases?” We send Rocosa’s branch boxes of our overstock, including new releases that we have a surplus of. So why are they all shaking their heads?
“Sometimes I stop in there if I need an afternoon nap before bingo starts. It’s dim and quiet on the second floor.”
“What a fib, Kitty. We all know you really go in there to see Mr. Sherman,” Eden says, raising her pale eyebrows.
“I didn’t say a nap was all I was up to.” She fluffs the ends of her white hair with a sassy flick.
The ladies giggle around me.
“So, you don’t attend the library events?” I ask.
“What events?” another woman says.
I sigh. I’m in deeper trouble than I realized. How can I save a library that’s not even doing the bare minimum? Ms. Anderson must have known all along.
“Does anyone use the library?”
“Why would we? My granddaughter sent me this fancy tablet that lets me read everything with giant letters,” Myrtle responds.
“Oh, I have one of those too. No need to leave the house,” Kitty says.
I rub the spot between my brows. “Besides books, nothing else brings you inside? Do clubs meet here? I know you said you play bingo. I run a book bingo back in Golden. Perhaps I can start something here. Instead of winning money, you’d win books,” I say with my best sales pitch.
They all stare at me like I have a third eye. Eventually Eden speaks up.
“While that sounds like a hoot... I’m not sure there are any books I’d like to win in there.”
The others nod in agreement.
Eden stops me at the door and pats my arm. “Well, we have to get back to our patrol. It was absolutely lovely to meet you, Maya. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We do our morning walks down Main Street, but after that, you’ll find one of us is always around town. We like to keep an eye out for riffraff.”
“I appreciate it.” I smile and untangle myself from her grip.
“Tell Mr. Sherman I said hi,” Kitty says, fluffing her hair.
“We are so excited to see what you do with the place,” Myrtle says, clasping her wrinkled hands together. “It’s all that everyone is gossiping about.”
That feeling of dread returns to the pit of my stomach. The whole town is expecting me to save their library.
But what if I can’t?
Unable to handle their hope-filled expressions, I rush into the library. The musty smell of books greets me like an old friend, that vintage smell of antiques and far-off places surrounding me. My fingers itch to sort through the stacks of dusty books to see what rare-edition books are hidden in plain sight.
But now isn’t the time to curl up with a good book... even if I desperately want to.
Between the rows of metal bookcases is a carpeted path that dead-ends at a circular desk. With each step, goosebumps spread down my arms like I’m standing in a place of reverence.
The term “library” is a stretch. More like a museum.
There’s a distinct rumble of snoring from behind the desk, and I creep closer past the tall stacks to investigate. Feet up on the desk, a gray-haired man reclines in his chair with his long legs stretched out. His arms are crossed over his chest, his hands tucked under his suspenders. Perhaps in his seventies or eighties. However old he is, he seems well past retirement.
An ancient computer takes up most of his desk. Does this dinosaur machine even run our current software? It’s an easy but tedious fix, especially if I have to log in all the books. But then I see it, the rows of drawers behind him marked with the dewy decimal system. Something I haven’t seen but in a textbook in college. I grab my cross necklace in mild panic. How outdated is this place?
There’s only one way to find out.
“Excuse me?” I say.
But the man only inhales another deep, rumbly breath. I tap the toe of his shoe and then shake it for good measure.
“Sir?”
“Dagnabbit!” he shrieks and snaps upright with a snort, his hands patting around his chest until he finds his glasses and slides them into place. “Sorry about that. I was in the middle of my lunchtime nap. How can I help you today?”
“Hello. Ms. Anderson from the Golden Branch called you last week about my arrival. I’m Maya Santos from Outreach.”
He scratches his five o’clock shadow. “I do remember something about a lady coming with her book-bus-thingy.”
“That would be me. Hi.” I wave a hand. “And you are?”
“Douglas Sherman V. It’s nice to meet you. I saw your bus parked on Main Street. Is that what brings you in today?”
“It’s one of the reasons for my visit. Besides bringing books to the school and community, I’m here to check out your library and see what needs updating.”
“Updating? Oh, no, thank you. I think we are running just fine without any of those newfangled devices.”
“I’ve been tasked by my boss, Ms. Anderson herself, to do a quick sweep of the library.”
He leans in, his brows furrowing. “Why?”
“The patron numbers are low... dismal at best. I want to help bring more people back into the library.”
“People come here. The school takes fields trips once a quarter for book reports and presentations.”
I scribble notes on my pad of paper. “And what about the rest of the community? This library services over two hundred locals. How many of them come in on a daily basis?”
His fingers run up and down his suspenders. “Uh, I’d have to pull those numbers for you.”
“Go ahead. I can wait.”
“Right now?”
“Yep. If you are using our new software, it will only take a minute to pull that data up,” I say, raising an eyebrow. He answers exactly how I expect.
“Right, but my computer here doesn’t handle all the new stuff.”
“Then what are you using?”
I almost faint when he pulls out a weathered binder, the leather worn and creased. He flips to a page in the middle and spins it to face me like it’s still the 1800s.
“See? As clear as day. I fill out the form and stamp their due date card, and they are ready to go. So much faster than a computer.”
“What about the tablets we sent last year?”
“Oh, they might be upstairs in the storage corner.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and mentally list my options.
One, I do nothing and let nature take its course. The amount of time and energy required to “update” this library would be like building a new one from scratch. Two, call Ms. Anderson and let her know how bad things are here and let her make the call. It’ll probably go the same way as option one, but I’d be avoiding taking responsibility. And three, I do what I came here to do: everything I can to save this library. But to do that, I’ll need him on board with the plan.
I let out a long breath and meet his gaze.
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Sherman. I’m not here to update or modernize anything. The Rocosa Library is on the list for closure.”
A vein bulges on his forehead as he shoots to his feet. “Absolutely not. My great-great-grandfather Douglas Sherman founded this town and constructed this building with his bare hands. This is a historical landmark that can’t be removed as easily as one flicks lint off their shirt. You can’t do that, Ms. Santos. You just can’t.”
“I agree,” I say, knocking the wind from his sails.
“Y-you do?”
“Of course. Libraries are more than just books, they are access to information, technology, entertainment, and educational classes—all while encouraging a sense of community. Without the library, some couldn’t afford these resources on their own, and it’s one of the main reasons I became an Outreach Librarian, to make sure they have access to these opportunities. I want you to succeed, but in order to do that, I need to see where we are failing. You have to be willing to make changes.”
“Well, even if I was okay with changes, the Rocosa Historical Society won’t be. They have their fingers in all our small businesses on Main Street, denying cosmetic repairs despite how much they would benefit the community. Especially with Gladys Monroe heading up the committee.”
“Wait, so we can’t change anything in here?”
“This whole street is in a historical district. Due to the National Historic Preservation Act, the Rocosa Historical Society deems what changes are permitted to the interior and exterior of the building. Unless we have their stamp of approval, not even the mustard wallpaper can be changed unless it’s crusted in mold.” He waves his hand around. “Trust me, don’t think I haven’t tried.”
“What can we do?” I ask, my fingers tight on my pen.
“There is a request form you can submit. If it’s not a necessary change, it usually gets denied.” He shrugs. “And at that point you can appeal at one of the meetings, but you are going to need an excellent speech and a founding family’s signature. The latter I can help you with.”
“This sounds like they purposely make this difficult.”
“Rocosa gets most of their profits from tourism. Without the old-time charm, this would just be another small city in the mountains.”
“It doesn’t make my job any easier. Okay, I’ll fill out the form once I do a survey to see what’s needed. Can you give me a tour?”
Mr. Sherman takes me from corner to dusty corner. My pen is scribbling as fast as my fingers can go: replace lights, add a new thermostat, create a children’s corner, install speakers for announcements, plumbing concerns in downstairs bathroom, fix loose boards on the stairs, set up internet & Wi-Fi, and new computers. Each new entry makes the cha-ching noise in my head... which I don’t have the funding to cover.
He pats his hand on one of the pillars. “Structure-wise, this place is a rock. Decor is dated, but it’s all original.”
“It definitely has a vintage smell.”
“History comes at a price. If you are looking for anything Golden has sent our way, you’ll find a corner stacked with unopened boxes.”
“If we start sorting through things now, we can see what else we have on hand to be better prepared. Moving the inventory from the card catalog to the online system will be a beast on its own. I might have to come in after hours to complete it.”
He sinks back into his chair, eyeing me carefully. “You were not what I was expecting when they said they were sending someone with a bus.”
“Is it my earrings?” I flick one of my dangling books, which earns me a smile. “Am I not professional enough?”
“It’s just rare to see someone so young have such a love for books. I fear that with each generation that comes through my doors, the crowd becomes less and less. Who wants to read boring words on the page when there are flashy video games, movies, and even virtual reality for goodness’ sake. I don’t want this library to close simply because I didn’t give it my all.”
“I’m not making any promises, Mr. Sherman, but I’ll definitely try my best. The most important thing is getting people back into the library. We have to show that this place is essential to the community.”
“You really think we can do that? We don’t even have internet.”
“Yet. Perhaps you know someone?” I pause, wondering if I’m biting off more than I can chew.
“I can call in a favor with my friend Birdie.”
“Is she the one in charge of the neighborhood watch? Speaking of them, someone named Kitty says hi.”
A rosy color rushes up his neck to his cheeks. “Is that so?”
“It is.” I wink. “Now you make some phone calls about any of these renovations while I dig through the boxes upstairs.”
The daunting tower of boxes greets me on the second floor. Stacks and stacks of them, and I’m almost too overwhelmed to start. I crack open the first box of “new releases” and groan that they are dated from seven years ago. But at least they are from this era, unlike what’s sitting on the shelves. Sliding my earbuds into place, I tap play on my current audiobook and start sorting.
This library is going to require more than hard work—it’s going to take a miracle.