Chapter 4 #3
how they made people think about and question reality. Mostly she cherished how she could disappear into a book and not have
to engage in the world unless she wanted to. After four years, she had settled into a life here, and the idea that she should
or even could change her life path sounded unsafe. And exhausting.
She shelved books up and down the aisles in an annoyed huff until she heard Margot Marshall call out to her from the foyer.
Stella stepped out from the stacks, and Margot lifted one hand in a wave. She carried a plastic container of cookies in her
other hand. Her dark braids draped over her shoulders.
“Morning, Mrs. Marshall. Excited for story time? Can I help you get ready?” Stella asked, thankful for the distraction from
her frustration.
Margot thanked her as she handed over the container and a stack of napkins. Stella breathed in the scent of warm chocolate
chip cookies as she followed Margot into the story time room. Once inside she placed the cookies and napkins on the far table.
Margot dug through her worn canvas bag of books and removed a hardback copy of Washington Irving’s short stories. “I checked
this out last week, and I need to return it. Television and movies have skewed my students’ knowledge of the real Ichabod Crane, and I needed to set them straight. I was satisfied in knowing they enjoyed Irving’s original story just as
much as all of the copycats. It’s so mysterious and open-ended.” She passed the book to Stella.
The book warmed in Stella’s hands, radiating heat like a lava rock. Slanted cursive words rippled out of the book like circular
waves leaving an epicenter. Green eyes. Pontificating. Bible. Stella looked up at Margot, a shiver quivering up her spine. “Did—did Ichabod Crane have green eyes?”
Margot tapped a scarlet fingernail against her matching cherry lips and then nodded. “Most people remember the description
of his skinny body and smallish head, the opposite of a bobblehead, I would imagine. But yes, I think he did. Glassy green.
Why do you ask?”
A gentle buzzing filled Stella’s head like the distant hum of white noise. She lowered the book, causing the words to dissipate.
“Just an image I remember. We arranged the bean bags and chairs in here last night, although most of the kids want to sit
on the floor—”
“Or lay on the floor,” Margot said with a chuckle.
“Don’t you wish adults would allow themselves to get as cozy and attend a story time? I’d be up for lying around all day listening
to someone read books.”
Margot’s laugh filled the room. “Sign me up for that!”
Stella smiled. “I’ll add it to the suggestion box. Anything else you need?”
Margot turned in a full circle, her knee-length polka-dot skirt twirling out like an opening umbrella as she studied the room.
“Not at the moment. Thanks, Stella. I’ll holler if I need you.”
Stella carried Washington Irving’s short stories to the circulation desk. She tapped her finger against the front cover of
the book. The world was full of coincidences, but her fingers tingled, so she grabbed her notebook and jotted down her thoughts,
a haiku this time.
My Ichabod Crane, Lover of she who did not, You were never found.
Then she closed her notebook and returned to the book cart.
As she shelved the last children’s book, the story time children began pushing through the front doors with their parents in tow.
Half the parents stayed with their kids, and the other half dropped them off as though the library were a temporary day care.
Tiny voices and whispered giggles filled the downstairs until the kids were safely snuggled in the room with Margot.
The sounds of the library soothed Stella, and she found herself relaxing somewhat.
At the circulation desk, she opened one of the side drawers and pulled out her mug, which said Librarian Because Book Wizard Isn’t an Official Job Title. Arnie had given it to her last Christmas. She wasn’t officially a librarian because she lacked the proper schooling and
license, but he didn’t care, and she liked thinking of herself as a book wizard.
She wanted coffee, but Arnie would probably encourage her to have at least two cups of green tea before she imbibed high levels
of caffeine again. Green tea tasted like drinking earth, which was probably the point, but Stella preferred her dessert-style
coffees.
One of the mothers slipped out of the children’s room and walked toward her. The mother waved a book before placing it on
the counter. “Arnie suggested this book last week for Tyler. He said all young boys love it, and he was right. Downside is
that Tyler has been jumping off everything. It started with his bed, and this morning he asked if I thought there was an easy
way to get on the roof. Lord, have mercy—the roof.” She rolled her hazel eyes as she shook her head. Tiny words marched up the woman’s forearm: Resilient. Thankful. Youthful.
“Boys. God love them, but they just grow up to be men while still holding on to their little boy spirits, right? What do we
do with them?”
“Not fall in love with complicated ones, that’s for sure,” Stella mumbled.
“What’s that?” the woman asked, leaning closer.
“Nothing,” Stella said with a hesitant smile. Crimson words resembling caterpillars crawled out of her notebook as though creeping, not wanting to be seen: Inferior. Misleading. Abscond.
A testament to her last relationship? Stella refocused on the mother and glanced at the returned book. Peter Pan was printed in gold letters across the glossy paperback. She thought of the young boy she’d imagined leaping toward her in
the antiquities archives. She fluttered the pages with her fingers and out slipped a few winged words. Come away with me. Never grow up. Always believe. Stella slapped her hand on the book, and the words rushed off the desk. She looked up at the mother.
“Is Arnie around? I wanted to thank him,” she said.
Stella nodded and pointed toward the stairs. “He’s up there somewhere. I’ll get this returned for you.”
The mother smiled and nodded. “I’ll see if I can catch him after story time.”
Stella stared down at J. M. Barrie’s novel. So many words today. They hadn’t been this active in years. Something odd was
definitely happening.
She stacked Peter Pan on top of Washington Irving’s stories while her fingertips burned. She heard Arnie’s designer shoes approaching her from
behind, and she whirled around.
Arnie lumbered across the way with an armful of books and a stack of folders. He raised his eyebrows at her in question.
“Someone returned a book with “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” in it, and then Peter Pan was just turned in,” Stella said.
Arnie dropped the books on the desk. “And I had scrambled eggs for breakfast with two biscuits.”
Stella frowned. “I’m serious, Arnie.”
“So am I. I shouldn’t have had two, but I couldn’t stop myself this morning.” He patted his rotund belly and shrugged. “But I’m an old man. Shouldn’t I enjoy the simple things in life, like buttermilk biscuits?”
“Arnie,” Stella said and sighed. “Those are characters from the vision—the dream I had.”
Arnie placed the stack of folders next to the books as the front door opened again. “Stella, you work all day, nearly every
day, in books. You’ll dream about them now and again.”
“No, I’m talking about last night when I was downstairs in the archives, and I . . . Well, I guess I fell, but I thought I
saw Peter Pan and a super-skinny man. He was reciting psalms, and he had green eyes. And there was a blond woman. Beautiful,
like a fairy-tale queen or something.”
Arnie stepped toward the front of the desk. “Sounds like a woman I’d like to dream about. Do you think she can cook?” He sidestepped Stella. “Good morning, Mrs. Little. How can I help you?”
“Good morning, Arnie,” Mrs. Little said. “I almost hate to return this one.”
Stella turned to face the tall, middle-aged patron just as she heaved a heavy book onto the high counter. Stella tilted her
head and read the spine. Greek Mythology.
Mrs. Little propped her arms on the desk and leaned toward Arnie. Her glossy maroon lipstick shone in the fluorescent lighting.
A smile stretched across her rosy face and dimpled her cherub cheeks. “Can you imagine being so beautiful that people would
go to war over you? Just to have your love?”
Arnie chuckled. “Not in the least. Did you enjoy your reading?”
“Very much. I need another suggestion. Something mysterious, I think.”
Arnie walked out of the desk area and led Mrs. Little toward the staircase where adult fiction lived on the second floor. As they walked up the steps, Stella heard her ask, “Do you really think Helen of Troy was that beautiful?”
“Stunning,” Arnie said. “Breathtakingly stunning.”
Stella stared at the returned mythology book, and very slowly, she reached out and touched it. The hardcover heated beneath
her fingertips. A woman’s laugh, followed by the echo of Greek words, drifted through the library. Stella thought of a woman
whose voice was as smooth as honey, whose face she could not look upon directly. Helen of Troy.
Stella glanced toward the vault door leading to the antiquities archives. “What in the world is going on?”