Middle C

by Gass, William H

  One wall of his room had been a retractable door with a row of square windows across it. This was infirmly fastened across the driveway, the end of which now served as his floor, by strips of felt and plenty of stickum. Shag rugs made from plastic rags had been used to cover ancient oil and grease spots. They tepidly warmed his toes, though it wasn’t winter yet. He anticipated the cold creeping like an animal into the concrete and crawling under the door toward his bed to warm itself. Fortunately there was no odor of gasoline. The place smelled as if it had been taken fresh from its box, nevertheless it looked the way things long unused seem—new yet forlornly out of style. Two walls, rear and side, backed into the house, but the fourth wall had a standard window covered by bathroom curtains so you couldn’t see the neighbors—or they, presumably, you. At the back of the garage, a door led into the house where a bathroom offered its mirror, a tumbler for a toothbrush, a towel hook, and a saucer that held soap. The badly stained john had a yellowed enamel handle that looked tired and familiar; the porcelain sink was spider-webbed with cracks; and crowded into a corner, a glassine shower, the size of its stream, had been amateurishly squeezed. Everything about his bed was brief, but its brevity left room for a desk served by a goosenecked study lamp and a stiff straight chair. He thought of Mr. Hirk’s. The lamp’s brown metal shade was schoolboy standard. Thank God it wasn’t green. He also had a squat stuffed flower-covered chair with fat arms and a bulbous back that bent his knees but made him sit straight. There was a cardboard closet and a plywood dresser available for his things. On the wall was last year’s calendar featuring a different library for every month. February, where it fell open, was distinguished by an archival photo of the Newberry Library in Chicago, sitting appropriately across from a park of snow.

  Ms. Bruss’s modest house perched on its hillside like a bird, so through his row of windows he could not only watch the drive roll briefly down the hill to the cross street but see the Quick and one of its bridges in the valley. It was not a long walk to the library; however, the return was a stiff one, and Joseph already envisioned hill snow and sidewalk ice making every step precarious. With the drive steep, and the car unreliable, Ms. Bruss provided bricks to place behind its rear wheels and prevent its return to the scrap yard.

  Miriam was not impressed with Joseph’s Rambler. You are like the simpleton who is sent to sell a cow and comes back with a few seeds.

  But they grew upward toward heaven and a hoard of gold. Besides that’s what you like most of all—seeds.

  Weed the comparison, she said with some annoyance, you know what I mean. My fifty went for this ugly old thing?

  No. Only thirty-five.

  Oh God, the good bills—the twenty, ten, and five, I bet, not any of the ones.

  It’s just paper money, Mother, it doesn’t matter.

  Doesn’t? ones are only ones like pennies are only pennies. Remember the penny pot? None of them was money till they were exchanged for a bill. You know how to destroy five dollars? Buy five hundred pennies with it. Less than worthless, then, just a bother. Heavy as Hades.

  Put a penny in the ground, your hydrangeas will thank you.

  Pennies? pooh. They’re made of aluminum and brown paint, not iron.

  I guess.

  Joseph described his library, said nice things about his new boss, and, in general, blessed the town.

  Woman at work told me the place—what’s it called? I’m forgetting.

  Urichstown.

  Ugly. Ugly name. Urichsburg. Anyway, she said the place was cursed. Cursed?

  Some women were accused of being witches there one time. Ages ago, of course. The witches put a curse upon the place. It floods regular. As the Nile, she said. To wash away the stain.

  I hope your room’s high up.

  Joseph described his digs to his mother, but discreetly, without any damaging details. He repeatedly mentioned the rent and how reasonable he thought it was. A garage, Miriam said dubiously, a garage isn’t reasonable: a garage is going to be drafty, the floor will be cold, on a hill the wind will be shrill and biting, the windows—you can count on it—will fill with frost—they will—it will be cold, ears to tootsies cold, so be careful to keep plenty of blankets about, and if there’s no charge for utilities, plug in an electric blanket, have a little heater, don’t freeze.

  Joseph agreed to every suggestion while trying to forestall criticism. What’s this “digs,” she wanted to know. It’s not a basement. You’ve rented a garage. He explained that it was a word he’d come upon in an English novel. This is America, Lord save us. You are living in a garage. Like a car. You are living like a car in a garage. With your friend the rust-colored car living like a homeless one on the hard cold pavement.

  I’ll be fine, Mother, and it’s such a brief walk to work.

  Watch out about that Miss Brush—

  Bruss.

  It’s too convenient for her, too tidy entirely, giving the space away after she’s fixed it up, invested some of the little money she must make at that library—look at what you’re getting—they pay in book paste, those people—in fines and petty change, dime a day for overdue. So be punctual. They’ll expect that.

  Joseph did not speak to his mother about Miss Moss, whom he finally met in the stacks one afternoon about a week after he started in his job, though he and Ms. Bruss had gone hunting for her a time or two so that he could be properly introduced. She was indeed—as Ms. Bruss had said after they’d missed her yet another time—a wraith. She drifts. And when she drifts all that needs to be there is a draft, a whiff, a puff of air—or so it seems, she said, a certain determination in her voice. I’ve been startled a hundred times. She drifts. Miss Moss reshelved, dusted, and repaired books. She had an office in the basement furnished with a book vise and adhesive. Breathe easy around her, Ms. Bruss advised, an unguarded sneeze could blow her into a corner. Loud voices will extinguish her like a match.

  The library had a basement and above it two floors. The first contained a reading room which opened to the left as you entered, a central stairway greeted you, next to which Marjorie Bruss had her desk installed, and to the right a labyrinth of beautiful oak cases, many laid against the walls where there weren’t windows or radiators, while the rest were arranged in military rows throughout the central space. These stacks were open to the public who might wander through them as they chose, though the only places one might sit and peruse a volume were the window seats, invitingly covered with soft plum pads. The public might ascend the handsome middle staircase, also of oak, to a balcony surround, behind which were further shelves and a lonely meeting space that contained several tables, an inadequate number of ladder-backed chairs, a portrait of Andrew Carnegie, and a silver coffee urn that was never used because, Joseph was told, the spigot leaked. He made a silent note to fix that.

  The basement was restricted. Kept there were books that were so rarely wanted they had to be called for, or were so valuable they could not be checked out but were required to be read in the reading room where—now—Joseph delivered them. Books that needed repairs sat on a trolley, and near the trolley, which never seemed to trolley much, was a room full of volumes, donated by the heirs of the recently deceased, waiting to be checked, selected, or cast aside for sale at the library’s yearly benefit and gala. Joseph was immediately tempted to remove a few, but he decided it wouldn’t be prudent.

  Miss Moss was in gossamer when he first heard, turned, and saw her in the space behind him, pale as a shadow and similarly bluish, light and frilly, insubstantial. When he tried to describe Miss Moss’s dress to Miriam she guessed it was of voile, which told Joseph nothing. Her short hair was silver, her complexion a pale airborne shade of bruise, as if her veins had become pools, or perhaps spills, beneath her skin. She did indeed whisper in response when he introduced himself. I’m Joseph Skizzen. I’m new here. Thank you, Miss Moss seemed to bob.

  I’m pleased to meet you finally, he said. You’re the new … boy. Yes, ma’am. For the gar … age, is
it so? Yes, ma’am, I’m to help check out and catalog and—. Not Ree … shelve, she asked with a tremor. Oh no. Not to dust? Yes, ma’am, I do dust. Oh no you must not dust till you’ve been trained. I hope you don’t Ree … pair? I don’t know how to do that, but I’d love to learn … to watch you work sometime … to restore an injured volume … to nurse to health a broken spine … oh … it would be a pleasure. A rivulet of wrinkles moved across her face and disappeared. When I … Ree … pair my door is closed, she said so softly he wasn’t certain what he’d heard. Then, as if a wide cloth were furling around a stick, she turned and fluttered away.

  Miss Bruss said that if ever she saw blue moss growing on a tree, it would be Miss Moss clinging to the bark of it. Joseph said she seemed a shadow. A shadow that has dark thoughts about its source, Miss Bruss replied, she is full of suspicion—apprehension and suspicion. But a harmless old thing. She haunts, I think, because she is haunted. I certainly don’t know by what. Joseph did not say so, but he decided Miss Moss was an incredibly romantic figure and that it was splendidly appropriate to have her floating about in the dark lanes and corners of the library.

  There was a backlog of little things to do as well as a lot to learn during the first weeks of Joseph’s employment. Marjorie Bruss’s library did not catalog according to any well-known scheme like the Dewey Decimal System or the Library of Congress. We don’t have that many books, and we pretty well know our card carriers’ habits and preferences. When Joey didn’t smile she had to explain what a card carrier was. His ignorance she put down to innocence, and it did not seem to annoy her. After they are assigned an entry number, new arrivals are racked along the walls of the North Room, labeled on the their plastic jackets NA. No one ever removes our Klean Kovers, she said as if expecting the question. Washable. His blank look forced her to add, With a wet sponge. Ms. Bruss let that sink in. After six weeks they are cataloged, allowed to relax and take their jackets off (she smiled and Joseph smiled, too, only a breath behind), and those that have been checked out most often are sent to the South Stacks where they are shelved alphabetically by author under the subject matter to which we assign them: ARTS or OUTDOORS or SELF-HELP, you see? Do the library’s patrons understand the system? Most do. We post the categories. So after a while they get the hang. Anyway, we know how it works, and that’s what matters. Expensive, oversized, and rare books are placed upstairs and don’t go down or out. The rest are sent to the dungeon. To Miss Moss, Joseph said, smiling his own smile this time. No. She only reshelves down there. She doesn’t assign places down there. She doesn’t understand the system we have … down there. Joseph nodded, but he didn’t understand the system either, never would, really, here, there, or anywhere. FENCING was a category, for example, but he had noticed there were no books in it. Stolen, that’s why. By that skinny pilferer, Joey privately imagined. We’ll refill one day. Even FENCING. Ms. Bruss shook more steel-gray glint through her hair. Stolen by a rotten little red haired crop-headed squish who came here and started giving fencing lessons—imagine, in Whichstown—I should have called our cop when I saw him coming. Ms. Bruss says Whichstown, too, Joey marveled. Stole the whole category though the listing wasn’t large. No, you needn’t be on the lookout for him. He apparently punctured one of the little ladies under his tutelage and was run out of the county by her enraged papa. Marjorie’s smile was slight but sly, a signal. No one to my knowledge knows if she liked her lessons or not or whether she learned to thrust and parry. Ah … but her father wasn’t foiled, Joseph managed. Marjorie lit up. Good, that’s good. You may do yet.

  Marjorie Bruss presented a trim figure in her white blouse, navy slacks and jacket, and her halo of hair. Joseph liked her rosy complexion, her warm yet brisk manner, her play with words. Her speech was clipped but low, her face round as a dial, her smile consequently wide, and her lips had many expressive positions. She wore shoes with very soft soles and moved about quickly but with almost as much discretion as Miss Moss managed. She saw Joseph’s ballpoint and took it from his shirt pocket where it was clipped. No pens in the library. Pens are poison. We permit only pencils with soft leads and dull points so any marks they make can be easily erased. Everybody …?

  the rule?

  … is for everybody.

  We can’t frisk our customers—I wouldn’t want to put my hands on some—but in the reading room or anywhere—if you see someone taking notes with a pen, you must caution them. Highli—? Indeed. Highlighters—highlighters are evil, they must be immediately confiscated and their users given a talking-to, even if they are marking up their own books or some harmless paper copies. Oh … Marjorie raised her hands to heaven. How I hate highlighters—you don’t use them, do you? Joseph wagged his head. Good, she said, good sign. The dog-ear people do it, stupid students do it, and they will grow dog-ears in due time. You don’t do dogs, do you, Joseph? We never could afford a pet, Joseph said. Good sign. Good sign. Dogs are bad for books. Don’t ever do dogs. They chew. Cats are bad, too. They claw. They love to rub their chins on the corners of covers, leave sneezers of fur. Rub their chins and grin at you. Before they fade from view, Joseph said. Oh, you are a darling, I kiss the nearby air, Marjorie exclaimed.

  But it would not be for the last time. The neighboring air got many a smooch. Marjorie’s approval made Joey happy. He was a success.

  Do not lean with heavy hands or rest your elbows on a book, even closed, even at apparent peace. You know why, I suppose?

  Ah—

  It compresses the covers against the spine and may crack the adhesive.

  Oh.

  Do not use a book as a writing board. Points can make indentations, especially—you’d be surprised—on jackets, many of which are waxy, slick, easily marked, for example, with a fingernail. And never put your notepaper on an open book, even to write a word—a dozen crimes in one action there.

  I wouldn’t do that. Open books are so uneven.

  Never mark in a book not your own, but even then, unless you think you’re Aristotle, never make a marginal note or a clever remark you will surely regret, and always assume the author is smarter than you are—have you written a book on his subject? … well?—so put down your differences on a piece of paper made for the purpose, or keep the quarrel quietly in your head where it will bother only you and never fluster another, not even your future self who will have forgotten the dispute, you can be sure, and will not wish to be reminded.

  Yes, ma’am.

  Marjorie. Not Miss, Mizz, or Ma’am. Marjorie.

  Marjorie. It was a nice name, he thought, well syllabled.

  Don’t put your palms down on illustrations, reproductions, any page at all, really, because even the most fastidious sweat—men sweat the most, women have more discipline over their bodies—did you know that? except for their hands, their hands are public advertisements, they encounter a porcupine, a precipice, a proposal, and their palms get runny; oh yes, and in the old days, when men kissed a milady’s hand, it was the top of it they put their lips to, not the palm, you never know where the palm has been or what it’s been wrapped around. Well. Where was … Ah … Be wary. Inks may smear. Pigments flake. Thumb oils may seep into the paper, leave prints, and sweat attracts insects, did you know? also there may be a fungus in the neighborhood. Sweat is a magnet.

  Gee, I didn’t know that.

  Joseph. That is your last “gee.” Never even feel—“gee.” You are a grown-up.

  Okay … “Okay” is also out? Gee … Okay.

  Marjorie laughed like a wind chime. Good man, she said. Good man.

  18

  Joseph had brought some new books to the basement for shelving. Miss Moss materialized beside him. Ah … Miss Moss, how are you?

  Every day is the same, she whispered, as if she were sharing a secret.

  Well, I suppose they are, down here.

  No. The basement leaks a little when it rains.

  Isn’t that bad for the books?

  It would be if the books knew where the leaks w
ere.

  I … Joseph felt himself in the middle of an admission of misunderstanding when it occurred to him that if the paper should sense and seek out nearby dampness, then—if it could—Miss Moss’s point of view might …

  You are shelving these?

  Yes, that’s right.

  Because I Ree-shelve. I make all Ree-adjustments. I dust them first—she flourished a rag—and then I wipe them all over.

  That’s capital. It was another expression he’d encountered in an En glish novel.

  Miss Moss tried (he thought) to fix him with a look, but she had uneven eyes. Of what?

  I meant they’d be well wiped then.

  Of course, I would not wipe otherwise, she said softly but firmly while moving off. She always lowered her voice as a sign she was about to leave you. It was like slowly closing a door.

  These are first-timers—for down here, I mean—new to the stacks. He had begun to explain, but she was gone. It was perhaps the bare inadequate bulbs that created her insubstantiality. In which case, he was less material, too.

  You must not, Marjorie had advised him, pack the books too tightly together on the shelf. They must slide out easily. Dyes will rub off or surfaces scrape. A browser is bound to pull them out by tugging on the headcap—actually, they’ll do it anyway, their index finger shoots out and hooks the poor thing backward, weakening or even breaking the cap, tips the book out topsy-turvy, how would you like that? It’s just the way you’ll fall down trying to get uphill when ice covers our walkways. Some tend to hook the book by the tailcap, which is thereby determined to tear. Worse, women who wear their nails long, who have nothing to do but file and paint (Marjorie’s were short, neatly scissored, and smartly filed, but Joseph sensed the gleam from a coat of clear polish), love to claw books forth by clutching their sides and in the process puncture the cloth—you see?—where it rolls in at the hinge. It is loose, soft, and unprotected there. Such dismaying creatures.