Chapter 10 May 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager #5
I fired up the photocopier. To keep from staring at his empty chair, I focused my attention on the warm pages that slid onto the tray.
I shouldn’t have let myself get my hopes up, but Chris was the first guy I’d liked in ages.
I didn’t know why my eyes had sought his out.
There were other attractive, single guys at the library, like Tolstoy, who parked himself in the corner and read All Quiet on the Western Front like it would save his soul.
Or David, whose demeanor was stoic, almost sad, yet when he told a child a joke (“What’s the tallest building in the world?
The library, because it has so many stories. ”), his smile lit his whole face.
So why Chris? I didn’t understand chemistry any more than I understood Greek. I only knew that I liked him. Even though I told myself that we barely knew each other, the ache I felt at not seeing him was akin to homesickness, as if he were already my country.
The next evening, with the director away, it fell to me to introduce our speaker—my first solo event!
Lena Kaufman, a correspondent with the Los Angeles Times, had two children with her French husband and had recently published a book on education.
As a tutor working with kids, the subject was dear to my heart.
At the entrance, I welcomed Lena, who wore a green jumpsuit and matching heels.
She was on time and sober, unlike last week’s author, a buddy of Mr. Hayes’s, who’d penned a roman à clef set during their prep school days.
(No surprise: cheating on exams and chronic masturbation ensue.
Mr. Hayes snuck out during the reading the same way he’d ditched class.) At the end of the talk, no attendees bought the author’s novel.
Feeling bad for the bookseller, who’d bicycled across the city for nothing, I bought a copy and asked him to sign it To Lily.
He didn’t write my name, just scribbled his own.
Afterward, I helped the bookseller lug the box to her bicycle and tie it onto the rack.
“What a jerk,” she said.
“What did you think of his book?” I asked.
“Dick and Jane Go on a Bender.”
I couldn’t disagree.
On the other hand, I hadn’t been able to put down Lena Kaufman’s treatise on education.
Now, when I asked if she wanted anything to drink, she replied that tap water was fine.
I liked her immediately because of her simple tastes.
We went to the director’s office, where she could leave her coat and briefcase.
Having an author to myself was heaven. I asked how she’d found her agent, the challenges of researching her books, how long it had taken to write her first draft.
She nodded at my questions, like maybe she’d had the same ones.
She gave me tips on writing a killer query letter and said that research takes a certain relentlessness. She’d had false starts, too.
When I escorted Lena to the podium, we saw all fifty chairs were filled.
Success! I wished Hayes were here to see it.
As I recited my introduction, I gazed at the audience, readers like me, spellbound by writers who brought us unexpected worlds.
We adults weren’t any different from children at story hour.
I finished the intro with the catchphrase I’d begun hearing in my sleep: “If you appreciate fine events like these, please consider supporting the ALP by purchasing a membership. If you’re already a member, consider donating. ”
“It’s lovely to see so many friends and colleagues.
Thank you for coming,” Lena began. “Studies show that French schoolchildren are more anxious in class and more afraid of speaking up than their peers in the States. They feel unaided by teachers, and overall have a less warm relationship with their schools. Sixty-three percent of French students suffer bouts of nervousness. Forty percent have difficulty sleeping. Why does France discourage children for what they cannot do, rather than encouraging them for what they can do?”
“My kids went through the French system,” the bookseller whispered to me. “It’s a miracle that we all survived.”
I nodded. School was tough for the teens I tutored.
Lena went on to explain that French students had strong scores on international comparative tests, but when asked about their results, they insisted that they did poorly. On the other hand, many American students had mediocre scores yet felt confident about their abilities.
“American students need less coddling, and French students could use some praise,” she finished to a hearty round of applause.
I asked the audience if they had questions. Several attendees raised their hands, but Mike Roth spoke before I could choose one. “I’ve been a professor in France,” he said. “Students here are fine. Kids just need to quit being babies.”
The Faithful tsked. No one appreciated Roth’s commentaries.
Lena raised her brow. “Did you have a question, or are you just the kind of man who feels the need to contradict a woman?”
“He feels the need to contradict everyone,” David said quietly, and those of us who heard laughed appreciatively.
Before Roth could respond, I called on an audience member.
She explained that her son had been kicked out of the lycée his senior year because administrators suspected he would fail the exit exam and ruin their 100 percent success rate.
How could schools treat children like this?
Bewildered parents shared stories and asked questions.
Expat parents were as traumatized by the French school system as their children.
Beside me, David gestured to the room full of readers talking animatedly. “You did this. You created this camaraderie.”
“We did,” I told him and Meg, who was right alongside us.
Once the Q and A portion wrapped up, I escorted Lena to the circ desk, and the audience besieged the bookseller.
The author spent an hour signing books and chatting with parents.
The bookseller and I exchanged thrilled glances.
For the first time, she’d sold her entire stock—tonight, there’d be no precarious pile of books to balance in her basket as she bicycled away.
Attendees took their leave; David stacked chairs, and Meg cleared the aperitif table. I escorted Lena to Hayes’s office to pick up her belongings, then back to the main entrance. My eyes swept the stacks, on the lookout for book lovers who’d lost track of time. I gestured for them to follow us out.
Meg congratulated me on a successful event and kissed me on each cheek before grabbing the garbage to take out. I thanked the author, who said a cheery à bient?t as the last of the Faithful departed.
I turned off the lights, and then, I heard something: the flick of a page.
Like antennae, the hair on my arms went up.
Even as my brain argued that I was being silly, my body knew something was wrong.
In the reading room, near the window, was the silhouette of a man.
He must have hidden in the children’s section—a place I never checked for stragglers.
He flicked another page. I froze, every nerve in my body on high alert, as I remembered Meg’s warning: Watch out for Mike Roth. I was on my own in a three-story building with no alarm system. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d stayed behind on a night when Hayes was absent. Roth knew I’d be alone.
“I didn’t see you there.” I heard the tremor in my voice. “The library is closed. Time for you to leave.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready.” He bowed his head to peruse the magazine, but I still saw his smirk.
He knew there was nothing I could do. “Please leave,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I was.
“Make me.” He leered at me. Clearly, he was enjoying this.
I was scared. Did he just want to lord his power over me, or would he pounce? He was between me and the front door, the closest exit. I didn’t know what to do. Could I make a run to the door before he attacked?
I thought of my grandma Pearl, who’d chaperoned our high school choir at the state competition.
There were four girls to a hotel room. Mary Louise had brought a cowboy back to our room to mess around.
“Don’t tell,” she warned. It was late, and three of us girls huddled in the hall.
Grandma Pearl approached. With just a scowl, she had us confessing.
Grandma Pearl strode into the room, grabbed the cowboy’s boots at the foot of the bed, and beat the man until he yelped for mercy and fled in his stockinged feet.
But that hotel had been full of people. Here, I was completely on my own.
Roth stepped toward me. “Time to get better acquainted.”
I glanced around the library, full of potential weapons, and grabbed a book to heave at him. Maybe the surprise of it would throw him off and buy me enough time to get to the back office. I could lock the door behind me and call the cops.
I steeled myself to launch the book and run.
From above, I heard a voice say, “Go home, Roth.”
David descended the staircase. He turned on the light and moved to my side. His expression was grim, like that of a boxer stepping into the ring. His worn tee emphasized his broad chest. No one in their right mind would spar with him. And anyway, Roth only picked on women.
When he didn’t budge, I stepped toward the circ desk. “Maybe I should call the cops.”
Roth threw the magazine to the floor and strode to the exit. He cast a glance at me before he slammed the door. The look said, This isn’t over.
David locked the door behind him.
My body was tensed. My jaw, my shoulders, my legs hurt.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I could see the concern in his eyes. I nodded.
“He’s gone,” David said. “You’re safe.”
I exhaled shakily and felt a last tremor of fear run through me.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could use a drink.”
In the kitchen, he pulled a seat from the table, and I sank onto the stiff chair. He poured us each a glass of red. He sipped his. I gulped mine.