Chapter 2 #2
The library didn’t open until nine, but arriving early meant I got to enjoy at least an hour of quiet time and read my emails without any interruptions.
Once the doors opened, it was a free-for-all, and I spent most of the morning at the front desk.
I didn’t notice how much time had passed until my stomach grumbled around noon.
Before I could sneak a snack under the desk, though, a man shuffled over to me.
His silver hair sprawled across his brown suede coat, and he cradled something in his arms.
“Can I help you?” I adjusted my glasses.
“Hello. I left a note for you last night.”
I tilted my head, then remembered the scrap of paper I had found this morning on the book return, something about a pending negotiation. This would be interesting.
“Oh, yes. What do we need to negotiate today?”
“Well, I have some library fines,” he said, and handed me a printed receipt. I looked down then back up at the old man, trying to smother a laugh. His total came to $236; he’d had these fines for more than a decade.
“I see,” I said slowly. “Well, sir, there are some options we could—”
“Here’s what I was thinking,” he interrupted. “I could pay it off with this.”
He placed on the desk what looked like a mound of clay accessorized with shiny pieces of plastic, all smushed together into something that loosely resembled a frog.
“One of a kind,” he said. “I know how much libraries love original art.”
I inspected the “art,” trying to locate any evidence of value—a famous signature, rare materials, anything—and wondered if perhaps he thought we also functioned as a museum.
I supposed I did have a habit of collecting knickknacks, so we did look a little bit like a museum, what with all the decorations I had accumulated over the years.
“Who is the artist?” I asked cautiously.
He smiled brightly. “Me! Made it myself.”
I stared at him, trying to decide if this conversation was actually taking place or if I was dreaming, when suddenly I heard a loud popping noise, and the ceiling above the readers’ corner exploded, water bursting through the panels, soaking everything in its direct path.
“What in the world?” I gasped, and raced around the counter toward the commotion. “Lana!” I called out urgently. “Go turn off the water supply!”
I saw Lana scramble out from the science fiction section she had been restacking, and she bolted toward the front doors in the direction of the valve.
I hurried to save whatever I could, moving armchairs out of the way, punting aside a small coffee table, and tripping over myself to rescue an antique reading lamp before the water could claim it.
But the floor was already a lake and there was now a large, gaping hole in the ceiling.
The water finally stopped shooting out like a geyser when Lana flicked the water main off, reducing itself to a trickle, then a drip.
I stood with my hands on my hips, shaking my head at the damage.
It was a disaster. The water had soaked the rugs and all our throw blankets and, most critically, some books.
“So,” my silver-haired sculptor said, holding up his FrankenFrog statue. “Do we have a deal?”
It took me thirty-five minutes to get ahold of Kyle, our local plumber.
Kyle was steady in a crisis, just like his dad had always been back when he was running their family business.
I once had the misfortune of having pipes burst in my bathroom, shooting god only knows what over everything, but Kyle’s dad, ever the efficient optimist, had me back up and running in no time.
I gazed up at Kyle on his ladder, praying that he could work that same magic in our library.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Honestly it just sort of exploded.”
Kyle muttered something inaudible as he continued to prod around up there.
“I mean, I know the building is old, but she’s still holding up overall, don’t you think?”
Kyle continued muttering, too low for me to catch all of it, but it sounded a lot like he was comparing the library to his great-great-great-aunt.
“How long do you suppose this will take to fix?”
Kyle shifted on his ladder so that I could finally hear him.
“Well, I need to replace all of the piping and the ceiling panels, so this section will be out of action for a little while.”
I groaned.
“So, no chance of having us up and running tonight?”
I heard him laugh, echoing into the roof.
“I’m good,” he called down. “But I’m not a wizard.”
I sighed. “It’s just that I host meetings here every other Tuesday, and I happen to have one tonight.”
“Can you meet somewhere else in the library?”
“No. All the other areas are booked.”
“Can you postpone the meeting?”
“Well, I could, but it wouldn’t be ideal—might set some of our progress back.”
Kyle shifted something in the roof, producing a loud thud, and suddenly, rusty orange water poured down onto the floor.
“Yuck,” he said.
I looked down at the rugs; they would now absolutely need replacing. Yuck indeed.
“What about having them meet at Brandy’s instead?” Kyle asked.
“Brandy’s?” I repeated.
“Yeah, my girlfriend Sasha manages the bar—I’m sure she’d host your group.”
I crossed my arms, realizing Kyle probably didn’t know why our group actually met.
“Yeah, I’m quite fond of Brandy’s, and Sasha, of course, but we’re a grief counseling group, Kyle…”
“I see,” he replied thoughtfully. “Well then, surely it’s important for your group to meet, even if it’s at a bar. It’s not something you should cancel, Henry.”
He fumbled for a moment before handing his phone to me.
“Just ring Sasha, Tuesdays aren’t busy at Brandy’s. Everyone is usually across the road at The Den for bingo night, so I’m sure she’ll stay open for you.”
I sighed again, pushing my hair back from my forehead. Brandy’s it was.
I scribbled a note and left it at the front of the library to explain the venue change, before calling all the regular group members to let them know about the flooding and our temporary meeting location.
Nearly everyone asked if I had called Kyle, and when he heard me confirming to everyone that I had, I saw his chest puff out just a bit, his smile growing a little wider.
“Don’t let anyone into this area,” Kyle said, making his way down the ladder. “I’ll crunch some numbers and text you with a quote.”
Even though Kyle always tried to be fair with his pricing, judging by the water damage, this wouldn’t be cheap.
“I’ll have to run this by the board as soon as you get back to me.” I wasn’t looking forward to it. Most of the board members were octogenarians and very cranky when it came to expenses.
He straightened his ball cap.
“I’m on it, Henry. We’ll get it fixed. Don’t worry so much, buddy.”
I grimaced. Easier said than done.
Kyle grabbed his ladder and gave me what I supposed was a friendly arm punch and left.
I stayed there a moment, my shoes squishing into the soggy rug as I took in the damage.
Water pooled around the legs of the chairs, and the bookshelves warped and darkened along their edges.
But it wasn’t the repairs I was most worried about—those could be managed, fixed with time and effort.
I was more concerned with the thought of our grief group not having their safe, warm spots in the armchairs in their favorite corner of the library.
It wasn’t just the physical nature of the space, it was the solace it offered, the understanding nods, the shared stories, the unspoken comfort of being surrounded by others who understood.
And now, as I stood in the mess, I wondered how to carry that refuge somewhere else.
By the time the day started to wind down, Lana and I had played tag team seamlessly, the product of having worked together for so many years.
While she managed the rush of kids, ushering them to tables for an afternoon of origami, I had managed to mop up all the water and move the wet books into the staff room to dry.
Eventually I was able to find a moment to myself and make a cup of tea.
“What happened to the readers’ corner?”
I jumped as Dev, our tech assistant, walked into the staff room, dumping his bag in a corner.
“Sorry, Henry.” He laughed. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I waved my hand over my mug.
“It’s not you. Just…don’t ask.” I sighed.
“A busy day here at Everston Library, it seems,” he said, grinning and handing me a brown paper bag.
“Mindy baked some apricot cookies last night.”
“She’s an angel,” I said, fishing one out, savoring the sweet aroma over my tea.
I finished my cookie and watched as the sun started its descent, hitting the front doors, sending a fiery gleam of light spilling across the floor, warm and inviting.
Whatever happened to be going on in the outside world, the library was the one place I always felt safe.
It held my memories, the beautiful ones and the ugly ones, layered into every corner like the rings of an old tree, each one marking a moment of time.
Jacob made up so many of those rings. Even now, all my memories of him—both good and bad—haunted me. Two years had passed, and it still didn’t feel real that he was gone.
It had started with fatigue. He grew tired more easily, which was unusual for him.
Jacob was a runner. He would run everywhere, even in the middle of winter, when Everston was bitterly cold and the snow piled several feet high.
When he stopped running for a few weeks, I became suspicious, but he brushed me off whenever I questioned him.
Not that that was out of character for him.
Jacob was born two minutes and twenty seconds before me, and therefore by birthright (according to him) he was always right.
He started making excuses. “I’m probably just working too hard. I’m sure it’s nothing, and I’ll be back to normal soon. I just need to get more sleep.”