Chapter 10 May 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #2
Unwilling to wait that long for another kiss, I stood on tiptoes to touch my mouth to his.
On Monday, I awoke at the crack of six o’clock in an excellent mood, still jazzed by my date with Chris and psyched to help my favorite writer. It would be a long day, but worth it.
When I arrived at the front door of the ALP, Wendy grabbed my shoulders. “Lily, you’ll never believe it. Remember how I said my dad has never visited me? He’s flying in for our event!” She hugged me.
“That’s amazing.” I hugged her back.
“To be honest, my research and writing had stalled. Maybe I was too tired from teaching. Anyway, I was on the cusp of giving up for good. I’d told myself that I needed a sign. Well, not a sign, but some encouragement. And then came your invitation. How can I ever thank you?”
“By continuing to write.”
“It’s about time you got here,” David teased as he ushered us inside.
To carry the hefty boxes for Wendy’s research, I’d enlisted my favorite bookworms, and introduced Wendy to David and Tolstoy, the reserved Gulf War vet who was the ALP’s inaugural writer in residence.
Like me, they were excited to help a novelist with research.
In the dank basement, the four of us played a kind of Tetris, stacking and restacking dust-covered boxes.
I wiped at my white blouse, hoping Jennifer de Narp and Mr. Hayes wouldn’t notice the smudges at tonight’s event.
We spread our findings on the conference room table, and I soon forgot my worries.
It was fascinating to go back to the 1920s.
Thanks to Odile, I knew about the ALP’s World War II history, but I had no knowledge of its founding, or the fact that it had housed an international school, which the French establishment sneeringly dubbed “The Wild West Library School.” The archives contained a gorgeous photo of the class with the instructors.
Wendy pointed out Jessie Carson, who sat serenely in the middle of the young women, her hair braided in a crown.
Wendy told us that there were only two other known photos of Carson, so this was an incredible find.
“This means everything!” She contemplated the photo. “Look at that pensive expression. For a documentary, images are indispensable.”
Wearing white gloves provided by Marius, we photographed each document since the photocopier would damage these fragile papers.
While Wendy jotted down notes, I asked David how his French classes were going.
“My teacher said that if I keep up the progress, I can enroll in college classes next autumn. She even helped me fill out scholarship applications. I’m torn between library science and law.”
“It’d be cool to be a librarian,” Tolstoy said.
“Maybe with the G.I. Bill, you could take some classes,” I replied.
“Do you like working here?” he asked me.
It was a tough question. I was thankful for my all-consuming job: Hayes, newsletter in hand, covered in his Sharpie criticism, circling my desk like a persnickety shark; trustees with their “You, there!” demands and designer lives; ten minutes of bliss as I headed to the photocopier in the hope of talking to Chris; and finally, armed with cleaning supplies at the threshold of the men’s room, I hollered, “Anyone in there?” only to hear the response from within, a frantic “Don’t come in!
” before I moved to the ladies’ to wipe down the sinks and fill the paper towel dispensers then darted back to the men’s.
I loved featuring authors from our community but worried I’d never become published myself.
On Saturday, one of my short stories had been returned with a not-what-we’re-looking-for-at-this-time rejection from the Harvard Review.
I gestured to Wendy, who grinned from ear to ear as she deciphered a handwritten letter from Jessie Carson. “Authors like her make the job worth it.”
After an incredible morning with Wendy, I needed to share the good news. At my desk, I wrote:
Dear Odile,
I know how you must have felt working at the library.
It’s gratifying to fortify writers, to get the pen moving, to keep the dream alive.
… And I know that you loved seeing your beau in the stacks, as well.
And speaking of beaux, guess what! I had dinner with Book Head!
How are you? How is everyone there? Did you attend the high school winter concert? I wish I could have gone. I miss you.
Love,
Lily
Just as I signed my name, Mr. Hayes approached, in his hand a copy of the latest ALP events calendar. He gestured for me to follow him to his office, where we sat at the table near the impenetrable safe.
He pointed to the upcoming month. “No big names here.”
“I’m waiting for confirmation from a French editor. Until then, I thought it would be good to invite local talent.”
“You should have discussed it with me.”
“But I’m the program manager.”
“Yes, your job is to order snacks and booze.”
Ouch. I placed my palm against the cool gray safe to help absorb the burn.
“And to make sure we have the speaker’s books,” he added.
“I made that mistake months ago.”
“You haven’t earned any points since.” He smacked the calendar with the back of his hand. “Poor choice of authors.”
“Most of them were invited before I started here! And I think audience members would disagree.”
“What audience? There’s barely anyone in attendance.”
“You want better attendance? Budget so we can place ads in the newspaper.”
I opened my mouth to apologize for my lippy tone, but he held up his hand. “I told you that the program manager needs to be diplomatic. Maybe think before you speak? Especially to your boss.”
He paused to let that sink into my thick skull.
“We’ve gotten off topic.” He glanced at the events calendar. “What’s this Wendy Peterson written?”
“A book called The Library Card. It’s about a librarian who—”
“Never heard of her. The title sounds dry. I’ve organized another event that evening, so you need to cancel her reading.”
This would break Wendy’s heart. It would break my heart, not that he’d care.
“The information about her event is already on the calendar,” I argued, hoping he’d see set in print as set in stone.
“Tell the author it’s off.”
I swallowed. “But her dad is flying in to attend.”
“Nothing I can do about that—this is why you should have gotten my permission. She’s low-hanging fruit.”
“Stop referring to writers as fruit! Just because they’re not famous yet doesn’t mean they’re not interesting. We’re here to nurture them. Without authors, we wouldn’t have a library.”
“Without money, we won’t have a library! I’m here to ensure the ALP doesn’t go bankrupt.”
Bankrupt? Could that really happen? I wondered.
“I have to make tough choices,” he continued. “Believe it or not, I don’t like it any better than you.”
I tried to put myself in the director’s shoes, or in his skin, as Odile would say. I knew firsthand it wasn’t easy to constantly worry about finances.
“I’ve booked Philippe Lester,” he continued. “He’s a big name, and his aunt Mazie is a millionaire. Inviting him will ensure her attendance, so I can encourage her to donate.”
“But—”
“From now on, I will approve your list of speakers.”
I needed to change his mind. “You’re right. I should have checked with you first, and will from now on.” My voice broke. “About Wendy…”
“I’m sure she’ll understand.” He gestured to the door. “That will be all.”
As I rose, I clung to the gray safe to steady myself. “Please don’t make me cancel.”
“There’s nothing else I can do.”
Fleeing to the stacks, I found myself in 170, ethics.
Usually, perusing titles cheered me up, but now my eyes, bleary with tears, wouldn’t focus.
I felt sick to my stomach. I needed privacy and slid up the steps to an abandoned section of the library.
I plopped onto the plush gray couch and brooded over how I would tell Wendy the bad news.
No, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. My tears fell.
Why did Hayes have to be so callous? Why hadn’t I been more articulate?
Why hadn’t I fought harder for Wendy? I wiped my eyes.
On the far bookcase, I spied rows of navy-blue manuscript boxes.
The identical exteriors did not allow for preconceived notions—impossible to judge a book by its cover.
There were no titles. There was ceremony and respect in wrapping the works this way.
I chose a box on the top shelf and untied the bow.
I wanted to lose myself in a story. To stay inside it forever, so I wouldn’t have to disappoint Wendy. I would forget my boss, my job, myself.
Memoir of subscriber Margaret Bauer, submitted in 1985
War.
You don’t know what lengths you will go to until you’re handed a rope. Nowadays, people assume they’re experts—on strife and suffering, deprivation and depravity—because they gave up chocolate at Lent, or watched a documentary on Résistants, or played soldier in a video game.
I should start at the beginning. But what is my beginning?
Perhaps the way I engineered the meeting with my first husband, Lawrence.
Our marriage altered the trajectory of my life, moving me from London to Paris.
He was attracted to my bosoms and blond hair, I to his tuxedo and social class.
England is a ladder, each person on a rung.
With titled parents, Lawrence was near the top.
Mum told me that education was the best way to move up, but as a girl, I’d never enjoyed studying.
My gran, who was hardworking but illiterate, convinced me that I could barter my beauty and virginity.
Lawrence’s mother viewed me as a social climber who belonged on the bottom rung.
She wasn’t wrong. With all my might, I reached above my station and tugged at Lawrence’s pant leg to pull myself up to his level.