by C. A. Pack
Relentless rain pounded her windows the following morning. She dragged herself out of bed and dressed in a hurry. No time for breakfast, besides, she had already packed her teakettle and mug for the move to her next flat.
She walked down to the corner for a paper and struggled to study the real estate section, while attempting to keep her umbrella from turning inside out in the wind.An extra set of hands would be nice.The first place she viewed was a basement flat that had flooded in the torrential rain. “Don’t mind that,” the landlady told her. “Just place a few towels on the floor by the wall to sop it all up.”
The next apartment came with an inebriated live-in roommate.No thank you.
Two more dreary prospects dampened her spirits, even more. She made up her mind. She just wouldn’t leave her old apartment. What would they do? Physically pick her up and throw her on the sidewalk?
Her stomach growled. It was well past noon and she hadn’t eaten all day. She stopped to buy a sandwich and had the bad luck of running into her boss.
“I thought you were sick?” he chided her. “You know, if you don’t like your job, there are plenty of people who are more than willing to fill your shoes. Maybe you should come in and clean out your desk.”
He was baiting her and she knew it, but she hated giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he got under her skin. “If that’s what you want, fine.”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she knew she had made a mistake. Not because her boss’s face turned bright red, but because she realized she would no longer have any connection to the Library of Illumination.
"Don't expect any severance pay," he said brusquely.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he turned his back on her and disappeared into the rain. She had no recourse, but to return to Book Services to clean out her desk.Great, another box of belongings, with nowhere to put them.
She didn’t have much to pack at work. Just a small potted plant, the cardigan on the back of her chair, and a book. Always a book. Other than that, she kept few possessions at the office, because they had a tendency to disappear.
As Lucinda watched, Johanna went through her desk to make sure she didn’t leave anything personal behind. She could actually feel Lucinda’s smug smile, behind her back. As her final act, Johanna picked up a huge pile of outstanding work orders and plopped them in Lucinda’s “In” basket. “These are yours, now,” she said, with a only a hint of satisfaction.
Lucinda’s jaw dropped, but before she could utter a word, the sound of an overturned chair crashing to the floor made them both jump. They watched as their boss stormed out of his cubicle and made a beeline for the company president's office. Moments later, he emerged quaking with anger and stomped over to them.
He stuffed a thick envelope in Johanna’s hand. “Severance pay,” he mumbled. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam rising from his collar. He hemmed and hawed for a moment before thrusting another envelope at her. “I’ve been authorized to give you an additional week’s pay, if you’ll make one more delivery for the library.”
Her heart raced. She would get to visit her beloved library one last time and say goodbye to Mr. Trees.
***
The weather was similar to the first time she had visited the Library of Illumination, and Johanna once again found the little old man lying on the floor, this time in the Magazines and Periodicals section. She leaned over him, careful not to steal his air.
When he didn't immediately open his eyes, she shook him gently by the shoulder. She had never touched him before and could feel the frail skeleton of his arm encased in the sleeve of his sweater. She wondered when he had last eaten a meal.
"Please wake up Mr. Trees. It's me, Johanna."
She picked up an old newspaper and began fanning him, but tiny Lakota Indians started flying off the page and made a racket as they did a war dance right next to him. It reminded her of the Lilliputians in a passage fromGulliver’s Travels.
Johanna scanned the paper and saw it was dated 1876. The headline story recounted the Battle of Little Bighorn and General's Custer defeat in eastern Montana. She quickly placed the newspaper down, covering the Indians. Their war cries stopped. She prayed they had returned to the printed page and that she hadn't smothered them to death
She looked around, desperately seeking a text that might help her. Her eyes settled on an 1887 copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual. It contained the Arthur Conan Doyle story,A Study in Scarlet. She grabbed the magazine and opened it up. Sherlock Holmes appeared, but she ignored him, turning the pages until Dr. John Watson showed up.
“Doctor, you’ve got to help me. That is, you’ve got to help Mr. Trees.”
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, not at all surprised by his surroundings.
“I don’t know. That’s why I sought you out.” Her voice had a tinge of hysteria.
Watson picked up the old man’s wrist and felt for a pulse. He put his ear to the man’s chest. “Well, he’s still alive, that’s for sure. Fetch a glass of water, please.”
He sprinkled some of the water onto Mr. Tree’s face and lifted the man’s eyelids to see if his pupils were dilated.
“Doctor Watson, how wonderful to see you again.”
“There you go,” Watson answered, as he slipped his hand under the old man’s back and helped him into a sitting position. “Catnapping again, Malcolm?”
“Just for a moment, my good man, but I’m awake now, so I’ll let you get back to it.” Mr. Trees turned to Johanna. "Hello, Johanna. Please close the magazine." Doctor Watson winked at Malcolm, just before disappearing back onto the pages of Beeton’s.
"My God, Mr. Trees, you had me so worried," Johanna said as she placed the magazine back on the rack. She sat on the floor next to him. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
"Johanna, we've known each other for almost a year now, and I think it would be appropriate for you to call me by my given name."
"Malcolm?"
"Yes. But all my friends call me Mal. You can call me Mal."
"Your friends?” She felt flustered. “Of course you would have friends,” she babbled. “I don't know what would make me think you didn't have any friends? It's just that it seems like you always have your hands full, working here and all, and I didn't realize you had time for socializing."
"Oh yes, I have friends, and soon they will become your friends, too."
"Did you hit your head, Mr. Trees?"
"Mal."
"Did you hit your head, Mal?"
"I know why you're saying that, Johanna. You don't believe I’ve made any friends nor that you’ll ever meet them. But you will, you know."
"Are you having a party then, a little get together with your friends? Are you inviting me?" She hated herself for sounding so condescending, but she really believed he might be hallucinating.
"You'll meet them here in the library. William Shakespeare. Rudyard Kipling. Mary Shelley. And their characters, Hamlet, Mowgli and Frankenstein.
"You're friends with Frankenstein?"
"Of course. You’ll befriend him and many other illustrious personages, as you take on your role as the newCurator of Illumination."
"But that's your job."
"And it has been for centuries, but I'm tired Johanna. It's time for me to go. I've been grooming you, you know, and you're more than ready to take my place."
"But I can't do this, Mr.... Mal. I have a job, a very demanding one, and the commute would be horrendous.” She stopped, realizing she had no job and no home. “I guess Icould move closer, since I have to give up my flat. Maybe I could even find a job nearby.” She paused for just a second. “No, it would never work. Taking care of this library takes a lot of time and commitment."
"Johanna, Johanna, Johanna, this would be your job—your career. And you’ve already demonstrated the passion it takes to get the job done. Besides, who do you think owns the company that employed you? LOI Book Services is a subsidiary of the lib
rary. Someone has to do the grunt work, making sure the scholars who use these tomes to keep literature alive, get books when they need them.
But not you, Johanna.Your devotion to the printed word is too finely honed. Your calling is toilluminate. It will be very rewarding, I assure you. And there's a lovely apartment upstairs for you to live in. You'll make ten times the salary you're making now, but you won't need it. Everything you could possibly want will be right here."
"I have to eat, Mal. I have to go out and buy food. Who takes care of the place when I'm gone?"
"If you need food, findThe Art of French Cooking.Julia Child would be happy to whip up a batch of Coq au Vin. Or if you feel the need to get out, although I never did, just go into the children's section and open upMary Poppins. She's very good about watching the place. And always singing." Mal started humming and then broke into song about how helpful a little sugar can be.
“You know, Mal, I don’t think they mentioned any such song in the P. L. Travers’ book.
He smiled at her. “Maybe not, but we’ve got the manuscript for the Disney screenplay here somewhere, and that’s the text you should use. Disney’s Mary Poppins has a much better disposition than the original Poppins, who was quite a Tartar.”
“We’re getting off topic. What about a boyfriend, Mal? How would I ever explain this place to him?”
“Haven’t you ever fallen in love with the protagonist in a book, or the antagonist, for that matter? Just open upGone with the Wind. I’m sure Rhett Butler would love to have dinner with you. Or perhaps you would prefer Jay Gatsby?”
“I mean a real boyfriend. A living, breathing person with whom I can share my thoughts and ideas.”
“Invite him here. I’m sure he’ll love the place.” He paused. “You may want to hide Oscar Wilde’sSalomeand Nabokov’sLolita in the beginning, but it should all turn out all right.”
The idea of it all boggled her mind, but not for long, as she looked beyond her own concerns. "Where willyou go? Will you be moving in with relatives, or an assisted living facility? Do you have a little retirement cottage waiting for you someplace?"
"You don't seem to understand, dear. I'll be going to a higher plane."
Tears started rolling down Johanna's cheeks. "You can't die, Mal. I'm not ready to do this."
"But you are, dear. I've read your diary. You've had appropriate reactions to every unanticipated experience you’ve faced in the library and you've handled every one of them in the correct way. You also learned how to handle the day-to-day duties, along the way. "Help me up." He offered her his arm.
Johanna helped him stand up, all the while wondering how he got hold of her diary. She couldn't picture Mal on his hands and knees, routing behind the toilet tissue in her bathroom cupboard.
"Come with me.” Mal slowly climbed the spiral stairs to the balcony on the second level and Johanna followed. He pushed a crystal lever on the end of one of the shelves. The bookcase swung open, revealing the entrance to a charming living room, lit by clusters of hurricane lamps in all different shapes and sizes. A fire sprang to life in the fireplace, and in the corner, a perfectly proportioned Christmas tree glowed with the flicker of candles. Jewel-like ornaments and sprigs of fresh herbs adorned it, filling the room with the aroma of balsam and lavender.
Johanna followed Mal into a kitchen where a freshly baked apple pie sat cooling on a creamy marble counter. Gleaming brass pots and pans hung from a rack above a large enamel stove. And she would swear she could smell the enticing scent of lemon-chicken, roasting in the oven.
Mal led Johanna into a bedroom, highlighted by a huge four-poster bed covered with a thick, down mattress and a fluffy duvet. On top she saw beautiful decorative pillows, and tall windows played host to billowy, white curtains that invited any breeze to make them flutter. Tables flanking the bed contained bright reading lamps and stacks of books.
Johanna stared at the books, straining to read the titles. She wanted to know just what went on in there at night.
Mal laughed when he saw the look on her face. "You don't have to worry, Johanna. This room is a safe haven. The only thing that will jump off the page in here is your imagination." A tiny, white kitten leapt onto the bed and became almost invisible, as it sank into the duvet. “And maybe that kitten.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ophelia.”
"That’s exactly the name I would have chosen. And this room is exactly how I envisioned my dream bedroom. The kitchen is my vision of the perfect kitchen. And the same is true in the living room. How is it that your home is the very home I’ve always dreamed of owning?"
"It’s like the books we love to read. No two people see the same thing. The story is shaped by our individual imaginations. I've always felt bad for people who don't enjoy reading. They must have no imagination at all. But you, Johanna, have been blessed. I've seen glimpses of your imagination every time you opened a book in the library.
“I assure you, when I first openedNoah's Ark, it was the giraffes that sprang from the page. And they were nudging a pair of slow tortoises onto the ramp of the ark. We all see what we want to see. That's the miracle of reading. The way it stimulates the human mind to create its own story."
“You haven’t answered my question. I still don’t know how this could look like my dream home, if it isn’t bewitched in some way?”
“While the library’s books may be bewitched, these living quarters are merely enchanted, and I mean that in a good way. I can assure you, nothing treacherous will ever befall you within these walls.”
"You also said you read my diary. How did you find it?"
Mal seemed to withdraw into himself. After a moment he looked at her. “I can now see why it’s taking you time to adjust. I just thought you knew... that you figured it out... like you did with the button in the vestibule."
"I don't understand."
He led her back into the library and spread his arms to indicate all of their surroundings. "This is the greatest library ever created, a virtual fountain of knowledge. Every bookemanates from here, Johanna. This is the home of every text ever written. Even your diary, for once you wrote down your thoughts on the page, they miraculously appeared in an identical diary, here. That way, if any journal, book or manuscript is ever lost or destroyed, it will only be lost in the physical sense, but the essence of its written words will live on in the universe. The only reason why anyone writes anything down is because they want to share it with someone. To write—is to illuminate. This is the depository of all illumination, and you have been chosen to guide it into the future."
Mal walked over to a shelf and removedHawaii by James A. Michener. He opened the cover and the vast space in the center of the library instantly transformed into a golden beach at sunset. A wave crashed to the shore, sending up a spray of droplets that sparkled like diamonds in the last rays of the sun. Johanna could feel the mist as it touched her skin. Mal handed the book to her and smiled. “This will be my retreat.”
She felt overwhelmed. She blinked back tears as she grabbed a tissue from her pocket to wipe her eyes. "What if I can't do the job?"
"You can and you will."
The tears seemed to be obstructing her vision. "Mal, you're fading away."
"My time here is over."
"But what if I need your help?"
"I read your diary. It's only fair that you read mine. It’s on my desk.Your desk. Everything you could possibly need to know is in there." He had half-vanished with the sunlight.
"Please, Mal. I don't want to lose you."
“You'll never lose me. We’re born of the same cloth. Books are in our blood. Literature lives in our souls. I’ll live on in this library, through the words in my diary. And you will, too.
“You're the Curator now, Johanna. Go forth and illuminate."
The vision of Hawaii disappeared, and Mal with it. Johanna closed the book, replacing it on the shelf. She turned and looked out over the library, expecting to feel bereft, but ins
tead, a sense of serenity washed over her, and she knew she had found more than a new calling and a new home. She had found nirvana.
—LOI—
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The exceptions to the preceding are President Harry and First Lady Bess Truman, Secret Service chief Frank Wilson, and actor Ethel Merman, who are historical figures. Their itineraries mentioned in this book are historically accurate. All other material is the product of the author’s imagination.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic, digital or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher with “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” in the subject line.
Published by Carol Pack Media
Westbury, NY 11590
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Copyright © 2010 Carol Pack
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