Chapter 18 October 1995 Lily Jacobsen—Program Manager
Lily Jacobsen—program manager
After work, Wendy and I met up in a booth at the Basement Brasserie.
Talking to her made me feel like a real writer.
She was so open, so bighearted that I couldn’t help but ask for guidance concerning decisions I needed to make about my future—I wanted to write about something bigger than myself to get out of Lily-land.
I explained that I longed to start a new project but was exhausted after working sixty-hour weeks as both program manager and English tutor.
“How did you decide when to move on from your job at the NYPL?” I asked. “Did you know it was time to quit? Or did you play it safe and take a leave of absence? Did you have a nest egg or did you leap into the void?”
I knew I might be overwhelming her, but I couldn’t help it.
“First, stop doing unpaid labor,” she ordered. “I’m sure you’re pressured to ‘help out’ on a regular basis. Your boss counts on you to feel guilty and obligated to pitch in. I’m sure you work double the hours you’re paid for.”
It was true. I did.
“When was the last time you took a day off?”
“July.” The library had closed for the Fourth, and I’d spent the day catching up on sleep. It had been my only day off since I’d started my job.
“Value your time and yourself,” Wendy continued. “You need energy and mental space to create. Once you figure out your passion, what you must write about, the rest falls into place. I resigned once I had my book deal. There was no looking back. One program manager to another, I believe in you.”
I mulled over Wendy’s advice. Write what you love.
As a child, I’d been obsessed with Odile.
Before I got to know her, I’d composed her story in my head: She was a spy in the Résistance.
No, she was a collaboratrice. No, she was a hero.
My fascination with her had not waned. Maybe hers was the story I was meant to write.
It couldn’t hurt to give it a try. Over the weekend, I typed nonstop; it was a story I’d contemplated for a decade. Energy and words flowed.
NORMANDY, JANUARY 1945
ODILE
The U.S. Army did not know what to do with me.
Or with Marceline or Lucienne or Huguette.
Since the autumn, requests for permission to marry mademoiselles had cluttered commanding officers’ desks.
Some days, it seemed there were as many fiancées as soldiers, and as many awkward conversations.
“You barely know the woman!” “You’re shipping off tomorrow!
” “You’ll forget her!” “She’ll forget you!
” Nothing doing. The men wanted their brides with them in America.
Naturally, wounded soldiers like my husband, Buck, got sent home quickly, first-class mail.
But the army brass thought it wouldn’t hurt us ladies to sit in a depot in Normandy, waiting to be sent parcel post if our paperwork came through.
While we were waiting at Camp Lucky Strike, Red Cross volunteers taught us to sew quilts.
As we pieced patches of material together, we spoke of our darlings, of the country we would call home.
Meanwhile at the library, Colette Levy, Pat O’Malley’s editor, still hadn’t confirmed his visit.
Each time I rang her, she was mysteriously out of the office.
Was she avoiding me? Or could it simply be a question of “French time,” whose hours moved more slowly than others’, and Colette meant to confirm…
eventually? Perhaps she’d received a better offer from Piccadilly Books.
No, she seemed like a straight shooter; I suspected she was interested in having the author speak here.
Too often, I’d jumped to conclusions and lashed out. This time, I would be patient.
Not everyone was willing to wait.
Today, Hayes strode into the back office, and I quickly closed my journal and slid it under a folder. He rapped his knuckles on my desk. “Any news?”
It was the fifth time he’d asked this week.
My chair squeaked as I swiveled to face him. “The second I hear, you will, too.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see the color-coordinated events calendar, Pat O’Malley still penciled in.
Hayes’s finger tapped the square over and over. “We need to fill the gaping hole in our schedule.”
“Colette will come through.”
“Face it, we’ve been stood up. It’s humiliating!”
On his way out the door, he muttered, “This was the one thing you were hired for. And you can’t even do it.”
I hung my head in shame.
My first weeks at the ALP, I’d been carefree as I sent out letters to French publishers, hoping to book “big names.” At evening events, I’d felt such joy in making a difference—authors sold books and connected with fans, while attendees learned something and were entertained, and friendships formed over wine and cheese and the written word.
I hadn’t yet grasped the stakes—to survive, the library needed more members, more publicity, more donors.
My role was to help secure the future. I’d underestimated how difficult it would be to reel in a literary star—since I loved the library, I figured authors and editors would, too.
The ALP received as many rejections from editors as I did for my novel.
I hadn’t hit any of the targets I’d set for myself.
Now, the job felt like life or death, mainly death.
No more ambling into the reading room to catch a glimpse of Chris.
I ate lunch at my desk and barely strayed from my landline.
Even when Marius’s phone rang, I grabbed my receiver and squeaked “Allo?”—only to hear the dial tone.
It sounded like a flatline, tolling the end of my time as the program manager.
Fortunately, there was very little downtime to dwell.
Something was always happening—story hour, an Entre Nous event, a scuffle.
The ALP seemed to be a calm, flowing river, but frustration bubbled beneath the current.
We were all under pressure, homesick, and stressed by city life.
For many, the library was a second home, and who never had arguments at home?
I supposed that every library had its problem patrons, but between him hitting on young girls and intimidating staff, Roth seemed worse than most. This afternoon, his voice filled the crowded reading room.
“The shelf I ordered has a scuff on it,” he shouted into his Nokia. “I demand that you send a replacement.”
From the circ desk, Meg, Lorenzo, and I watched Roth go red in the face as he continued to berate a customer service agent.
“Cellphones are man’s worst invention since the atomic bomb,” Lorenzo muttered.
“Mobiles make communication easy,” Meg argued.
“Too easy,” I responded.
Lorenzo told him to pipe down, which Roth did for two minutes before he forgot himself and started shouting again. At the table closest to him, three Yearlings covered their ears. Near the window, pen in hand, Tolstoy had turned pale.
“No, I’m not going to return it. Listen, you idiot, I’m not going to pay international shipping fees!” Roth kicked the terra-cotta pot.
Dirt spilled out, and the poor palmetto keeled over onto the floor.
Lorenzo moved to give Roth a talking-to, but Tolstoy got there lightning fast. “Take your call outside.”
The Yearlings gazed at him gratefully.
Roth waved him away. He had a few pounds and a few years on Tolstoy and clearly didn’t view the lanky writer in residence as a threat.
“You need to move outside.” Tolstoy advanced, until the men were toe to toe.
Roth covered the microphone and hissed, “Mind your damn business.”
Tolstoy motioned to the palmetto. “You’ve made it my business. Get out.”
Roth glanced at the trio of young women, clearly getting off on acting like a tough guy. He poked Tolstoy’s chest. “Make me.”
Swiftly and elegantly, Tolstoy headbutted him. The cellphone hit the carpet with a thump. Blood flowed from Roth’s nose, which appeared to be broken. For ten seconds, everyone froze, including Roth and Tolstoy, still just inches apart.
Tolstoy turned to us. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Lorenzo replied.
“The ALP should have rescinded Roth’s membership long before this,” Meg added.
“Man, I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” Tolstoy said.
I gently ushered him behind the circ desk, where Lorenzo poured him a cup of tea from his thermos.
Roth gesticulated in our direction. “You’ll pay for this!”
Though his hand covered his nose, it did nothing to stop the gush of blood. No one, not even Meg, asked him if he was okay or handed him a tissue. I couldn’t feel bad for Roth. Men like him only responded to violence.
The shouting brought Hayes from his office. “What is going on out here?” He took in the scene. “Not the carpet.” He groaned as Roth’s blood soaked into the nylon.
“He attacked me.” Roth pointed to Tolstoy.
“I’m sure you provoked him,” Hayes replied. “The way you provoke everyone.”
“You need to ban that psycho,” Roth replied.
“Psycho,” Hayes repeated. “That’s how you talk about a decorated veteran? He’s not the one we’ll be banning. We’re done with you, Roth. I’ll get the restraining order myself.”
“You can’t keep me out. I’ll sue!”
“That sounds right,” Hayes replied. “You hiding behind some lawyer.”
“We have a lawyer of our own,” Meg informed Roth. “Jennifer de Narp will kick your ass in court.”
Back at my desk, I was so distracted that I didn’t even hear the ringing of the phone. Marius shook my shoulder gently. “Are you going to answer that?”
I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Still fazed by the bloodshed, it took me a moment to realize who was talking to me and what she was saying.
“As you well know, Lee-lee,” Colette said, “in the book life, there’s never a moment of respite. I apologize for being slow in confirming the Pat O’Malley event.”
I jumped from my chair and continued to jump up and down, gripping the phone cord for dear life. “He’ll be speaking here? Truly?”
“Of course,” she said indulgently, clearly used to program managers practically weeping in gratitude.