I smile at them tentatively, but as they get closer, I see that they’re not smiling back. In fact, one girl—one of the princesses—looks angry. My heart starts to gallop.
“Where’s Mr. Rogers?” she asks.
I want to point out that his name is Roger, without an “s,” and that his last name is Brown, and so he would therefore not technically be Mr. Rogers, who was a popular children’s television show host—but now doesn’t seem to be the time.
“He’s sick today,” I say, which I’m not even sure is true. Louise didn’t say why he wasn’t coming in. “So I’ll be taking his place.”
“Do you have candy?” she asks.
Crap. The candy. I only grabbed the books.
“I do,” I say, hoping Roger left the candy at his desk somewhere.
She stares at me for a beat longer and then nods as if I’ve satisfied her demands. Then she and the other two princesses sit down in a row and more children begin to trickle in and do the same.
It feels like they’re coming from every direction and I want to round them up and keep them all in my line of sight. What if one of them gets too close and tries to touch me? Children are like snakes—they’re unpredictable. I scoot my chair back toward the wall as far as it will go, feeling my throat close up as if I’ve already been touched.
I look around wildly, hoping Roger might appear, Louise will step in, the fire alarm will go off and we’ll have to evacuate the building . . . anything to stop this nightmare. Instead, my eyes lock on Madison H. She’s pushing a stroller and guiding two kids into the circle. My heartbeat slows a little.
She stops short as she takes me in. “Did you forget to comb your hair this morning?”
Before I can respond, the little girl holding her hand says, “Mommy, it’s a costume.”
“Oh, right! Let’s see.” Madison sizes me up. “Are you that girl that crawls out of the TV in—what was that movie—The Ring?” She shudders. “God, that was horrifying.”
“Of course she’s not,” her daughter says, rolling her eyes, which seems awfully adultlike for such a small child. But then, I don’t know much about children. “She’s Lady Gaga.”
I shake my head. “No, I—”
“Lady Gaga doesn’t wear pajamas,” a tinny voice says, cutting me off. I think it’s the pirate.
“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Past?” says another.
“I know, I know! She’s Amish! Grandma took me to that village in Pennsylvania last year. They don’t have dishwashers or TV.”
“Everyone has TV.”
My eyes dart to where the voices are coming from, but it’s hard to tell.
“She’s a serial killer.” The word “killer” sucks the air out of the room and everyone turns to look at a young boy sitting in a wheelchair. His dark eyes aren’t looking at me—they aren’t really looking at anybody.
His dad—I assume it’s his dad, even though they look nothing alike, because he’s standing behind him gripping the handles of the wheelchair—laughs nervously. “Why would you say that, buddy?”
“The gloves,” the boy says. “Serial killers wear gloves.”
Fifteen wide-eyed kids turn back to stare at me and my hands. I shift in my seat and my heart revs up again.
“What’s a serial killer? Is it someone who really, really likes Cap’n Crunch?”
“Why do they wear gloves?”
“I like Cap’n Crunch!”
“Are you going to kill us?” a shaky voice asks.
At least two kids burst into tears.
My heart is thumping so loudly, I wonder if everyone can hear it. If I’m an Edgar Allan Poe story come to life. This is so much worse than I anticipated. I scan to my left and right looking for an escape route, but there are kids everywhere. I take a deep breath and clap my gloved hands together. I can do this.
“No one is killing anyone,” I say, and offer my friendliest smile. “I am not dressed as a serial killer or Lady Gaga or an Amish person—though that was a good guess.” I nod toward the fireman, who I think said the bit about Amish people and TVs. He beams.
“I’ll give you guys one hint.” I feel rather than see the kids lean forward. And even though they’re just children, my cheeks flame up and I wish my chair would collapse and swallow me whole. I clear my throat. “‘Hope’—” The word comes out squeaky, like a mouse tittering. I try again. “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers . . . that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.”
The poem hangs in the air and the kids just stare, silent. Finally, one pipes up.
“Are you a . . . bird?”
I glance around at their tiny faces. I guess they’re a little young for Emily Dickinson. My eyes stop when I get to the dad standing behind the wheelchair. He’s looking at me, but he’s not just looking at me—his eyes are penetrating my face, as if he’s almost looking through me. It’s unblinking and intense. Maybe he thinks I’m a serial killer after all.
I quickly look down and pick up the first book in my lap. Flat Stanley and the Haunted House. “Let’s get started,” I say, and hold it up.
The air erupts in cheers and shouts for Flat Stanley. I’ve never heard of this character but apparently he’s quite popular. I silently thank Roger for at least picking out the right books.
LATER, WHEN THE kids clutching handfuls of candy in their tiny palms have dispersed through the stacks to find their parents—Louise found the bags Roger had stashed and brought them over, to my great relief—Madison H. pushes her stroller toward me and, when she gets close enough, says in a low voice: “I still can’t believe Donovan skipped out on this. The kids have been looking forward to it for weeks.”
I glance at the baby snuggled in his car seat, staring up at us with wide eyes, and wonder what it would be like to hold him. To feel the wisps of his eyelashes against my cheek.
“He said he had some ‘big, important meeting,’ ” she says, making air quotes with her fingers. “Pretty sure that’s code for fucking his secretary.”
I start coughing, literally choking on any words I might say in response. My eyes dart around the room again, looking to see if anyone may have overheard.
“Anyway, good to see you,” she says. “We should get lunch next week.”
I stare at her as if she’s speaking Swahili. Get lunch. I wonder whether she means it or it’s just something people say to be nice.
“Sammy! Hannah! Let’s go.” I hear, rather than see, the kids whine in protest, their voices floating from behind one of the stacks in the children’s section. “Now!” Madison shouts. Then she sighs. “C’mon, we’ll get mocha lattes on the way home.”
Mocha lattes? Do children drink coffee now?
Yips of glee filter from the stacks and Hannah and Sammy come running out toward their mom. I maneuver around the kids and walk back toward the circulation desk. Louise looks up as I enter our workspace.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Her eyes look past me, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Oh dear, don’t look now. This guy came in a few days ago. He and his boy seem a little . . . off.” She turns around, busying herself with checking books in, and I look up—because who doesn’t look when someone says “don’t look now”—and directly into the eyes of the wheelchair dad. He’s tall, but not in an imposing way. And his hair is like a spice mix of colors, mostly nutmeg and cinnamon, with a touch of salt. It sticks out haphazardly from his head, as if just begging for a mussing by a grandmotherly type. If he didn’t have such an intent, serious look on his face, it would almost be charming. I train my gaze beside him on his wheelchair-bound son, struggling to push himself up to the circulation desk.
“Help me,” he says to his dad. He looks so small in the large chair, and his big eyes grow even bigger with the strain. My heart melts for him instantly—even if he did call me a serial killer.
“No.” The man looks away from me and back at the boy. “I told you I wasn’t going to push you all day.�
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It’s so callous, so harsh, that my mouth drops open. Maybe this is some kind of new-age tough-love parenting, but good grief. The kid is handicapped.
The dad sets a stack of books in front of me on the desk but I make no move to check them out. I’m watching the boy writhe and wrestle with the too-big wheels. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up at me and then back down.
“You should have worn glasses,” he says.
“What?” I’m not even sure he’s talking to me because he’s not making eye contact.
“Big ones, with clear frames.” The words come out a little choppy as he puffs with effort.
“Do you need help?” I ask him.
“He’s fine,” the man cuts in, an edge to his voice that sounds sharper than necessary.
I ignore him and keep my eyes trained on the boy.
“Dorothea Puente,” he says in between huffs. He’s now about four feet from the desk. “She ran a boardinghouse and killed nine of her tenants over a span of six years.” He glances back up at me and looks away again. “You’re dressed like her. A younger her. But she wears glasses.”
“OK, that’s enough,” the man says, and then turns to me. “Sorry about that.”
He looks back at the boy, who now I’m thinking may not be his son after all, because not only does the kid have darker skin and silky black hair, but he talks with just a hint of an accent. He could be adopted, but the guy doesn’t strike me as the warm and fuzzy adoptive type.
“Cut it out with the serial killer stuff, OK?” the man says.
“No, it’s all right,” I say. “I’ve never heard of her.”
“Most people haven’t,” says the boy. “Female serial killers aren’t as notorious as male ones based on the stereotype that all women are driven by emotions and therefore can’t be psychopaths, who, by definition, lack empathy.”
The man sighs.
I stare at this kid, who’s now looking me directly in the eyes, and I’m not sure what to make of him. For one, he’s tiny. I’m not adept at guessing the ages of kids, but he can’t be more than eight, and he talks like a college graduate. And he’s wearing a three-piece suit. I didn’t even know they made three-piece suits for children.
“Did you know Jack the Ripper only killed five women?” I say, because he’s the only serial killer I really know anything about and for some reason I want to trade obscure knowledge with this boy.
The man’s eyes widen at me.
“Of course,” says the boy. “Everyone knows that.”
Oh. I change the subject. “Why didn’t you dress up for Halloween?”
“I did,” he says.
I peer at him more closely. I wonder if it’s some kind of beyond-his-years play on words—he’s being clever by literally “dressing up” in formal attire, rather than a costume.
“Picture me with a bald head,” he says, and darts his eyes up toward the man. “I was not allowed to shave it.”
I try to think of bald, well-dressed men.
“Bruce Willis?” I ask.
“Who?”
“He’s an actor. He was married to Demi Moore.”
“I don’t know who that is, either,” says the boy. “I’m Professor X.”
This name means nothing to me, and I guess my face reveals that.
“From the X-Men?” he says.
“Oh, that movie,” I say, now remembering seeing commercials for the blockbuster that had a woman painted in blue, a kind of fox guy with talons, and the older, bald man who—oh right!—is in a wheelchair. That must be Professor X.
His eyes get big and he looks stricken, as though I’ve deeply offended him. “The comic books,” he says, enunciating each word, as if I’m the child and he’s the adult.
“Well, it was very clever of you to choose a character that also uses a wheelchair,” I say.
The man beside him inhales deeply and then lets his breath out—a long stream of air—before he says: “He’s not disabled.”
“Professor X?” I ask, confused.
“No, my son,” he says, nodding at the boy.
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say then. I look down at the boy, who smiles up at me, and I’m struck, not only because it’s the first time he’s smiled, but because it lights up his entire face. I can’t help but grin back at the large, protruding teeth that are occupying the place where his lips used to be.
“I didn’t think it was quite . . . appropriate, but he insisted, and . . . ,” the dad is mumbling, and then he cuts himself off. “It doesn’t matter.”
He sets his armload of books on the counter in front of me as if signaling that the conversation is over and it’s time to get on with the checking-out process.
I tear my eyes away from the boy and oblige, picking up the first book on the stack. It’s Breaking Dawn, the fourth book in the Twilight series. I glance at the boy once more—surely he’s too young for this book? But then again, he does seem rather precocious and he has a wealth of knowledge about serial killers. I scan it and set it aside.
Next is The Virgin Suicides. It’s one of my favorites and I let out a small, involuntary gasp.
“Excuse me?” the dad says.
I look up at him. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. I just love this book.”
He furrows his brow at me, giving me the same intent stare that unnerved me during the children’s reading circle. “You do?”
I look away from him, letting out a quick “yes,” and move on to the final two books: Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and Nicholas Sparks’s The Notebook. Strange picks for both an eight-year-old boy (even if he is mature for his age) and a grown man.
After scanning them, I take his proffered keys out of his hand and scan the library card that he has on his key chain. I look at the screen and a name pops up: Eric Keegan.
I print out the receipt; stick it in the middle of the top book, which is now The Notebook; and heft the stack up on the counter in front of the man. “These are all due back in three weeks, Mr. Keegan,” I say. “November twenty-first.”
He nods and then looks down at the boy. “Let’s go,” he says. When the boy starts to maneuver the wheelchair with exaggerated effort, the dad sighs again. “Can’t you just get up and push it? The costume event is over.”
“Professor X couldn’t just get up,” says the boy. “And neither can I.”
In a burst of energy, the boy rams the chair directly into the circulation desk, with enough force to knock over a pen jar in front of me.
“I told you to wear your glasses,” the dad mumbles.
“Professor X doesn’t wear glasses,” the boy replies.
“Sorry,” the man says to me as I busy myself picking up pencils and pens and putting them back in the overturned jar. I want to tell him it’s OK, but I can’t push the words out of my mouth. It feels like too much, this man with the intense gaze, this entire conversation—which might be the longest one I’ve had in years—this day. My fingers find my wrist and I start drumming, willing my heartbeat to step in line with the rhythm.
The man grabs the handles of the chair and helps turn the boy around, toward the exit. “There,” he says. Finally, I think, glad to see the man isn’t a complete jerk. I lift my head to watch them go, but as soon as I do, he glances back at me.
Embarrassed to have been caught studying them, I avert my gaze to the computer.
“Thanks,” he says. And then after a moment, he adds: “Emily.”
Shocked, I jerk my head back up at him, but he’s already turned around, slowly pushing the large wheelchair and his son toward the door.
Louise comes up behind me and says under her breath, “Told you they were weird, didn’t I?”
I don’t respond, still a bit stunned from the whole exchange.
“Dad seems like kind of an asshole, if you ask me,” she continues.
I nod slowly. He was a bit . . . stern. But then, he also knew Emily Dickinson by heart, and to be honest, I’m just not really sure what to make of that.
eight
ERIC
MY MOTHER LOVED that poem, “ ‘Hope’ Is the Thing with Feathers.” A cross-stitch of it hung at the end of our hallway and even though I saw it every evening on my way to bed, it’s one of those things that I stopped noticing because I was so used to its being part of the landscape.
But then I heard the opening refrain, and I remembered it. And I knew right away that that librarian was dressed as Emily Dickinson.
Doesn’t really explain her wild hair, though.
Or the gloves.
Or why, when I looked at her, I couldn’t stop looking at her, as if her face were a magnet and my eyes were made of steel. Maybe it was because she had this strange quality about her—almost feral. Like a back-alley cat that jumps at sudden movements and runs in the opposite direction of people. To be honest, she looked a little like a mental institution patient in that getup.
But later that night, as I crack open Breaking Dawn and her face flashes in my mind for the third time, unbidden, I have to admit—she is quite possibly the most beautiful insane woman I’ve ever seen.
PART II
I dwell in possibility.
Emily Dickinson
(Twenty years ago)
* * *
* * *
The New York Times
(continued from page 3B) Back in 1947, 42 years before Jubilee Jenkins was born, a scientist named Dr. Frank Simon conducted a small study to discover if human dander could be the cause of some cases of eczema—particularly infant eczema. His results were positive. Five patients developed atopic dermatitis when they came into contact with the skin cells of other people. The study, published in the Journal of Investigative Dermatology, attracted little notice, seeing as how atopic dermatitis was a mild skin reaction and was known to be caused by any number of environmental allergens—now, thanks to Dr. Simon, other human skin cells included.
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