Newspapers rested on long bamboo sticks in an organized row, most recent closest to the front. I pulled the latest stack of papers from the pile on the circulation desk and walked back into the periodicals room to cycle them through.
The periodicals room was both a vast overstatement and a tiny, out-of-the-way corner of the library. Racks leaned against a wall that led nowhere, and the few small tables sat mostly empty almost all the time, except for the one I’d commandeered for digitizing local history. I scanned the tables for something to straighten or clean, but the section looked unused and unnecessary. The bamboo sticks made almost musical rattles as I pushed the last one out, the next one back, and the next one back. Sunday’s The Wall Street Journal unfolded.
Ditto for New York Post.
Then Los Angeles Times.
Then came the Herald-Tribune, the weekly paper here in Franklin. There was a top-of-the-fold photo of the library, in full color, with a woman in a wheelchair. I pulled the paper back out of the bamboo stick and looked at the article. “UNJUST” read the headline.
Cool. Someone was standing up for the library. They thought it was unfair that people wanted to close it. Then I scanned the article. Not cool. It was ranty. The article told the community that the library was morally, legally, and ethically responsible to retrofit the building for the differently abled. I was totally on board with the sentiment, but the syntax was stabby.
Someone named Lydia Allen spoke for the woman in the picture. “If the people who run this institution think they can win a bond election without making the building universally accessible, they have got to get their nose out of the books and look around. Quit hiding behind your outdated building and your reverse-technology book stacks and see your patrons.”
I let my eyes slide over paragraphs of legal-talk and looked for actual words from the woman in the photo. I couldn’t find any.
“We’ve talked to the city council,” Allen added. “They’ve agreed to have an exploratory inspection done. We can expect to see details and even architectural plans by early next month.”
Architectural plans?
Then there was a quote from Ms. Marnie Blum, attorney. Apparently she was a city council big shot. “We intend to search this issue from all angles and make the best decisions for everyone involved.” Which, obviously, sounded exactly like the kind of political spin that says lots of comforting words and means absolutely nothing. There was no best decision for everyone involved.
I’d heard the phrase “I’m of two minds about this” before, but I’d never actually felt my brain split in half over an issue. Of course I wanted our library accessible to everyone; I’d love to have a new, modern, wide-open, accessible building with elevators and wide enough spaces between shelves to actually accommodate a wheelchair. But I also wanted to keep this library. The one I’d grown up with. The one my parents had loved as kids. The one I loved.
I looked up at the tall ceiling, the wooden moldings, the white window frames that had been painted over so many times I could make a dent in the paint with my fingernail. I loved this crazy place.
I read the article again. It seemed like the Allen woman was saying that people should only come to the library if the county promised to rebuild. She was upset, obviously.
I looked up at the chandelier hanging in the periodicals room. It looked like it belonged in a ballroom. Probably since this room had once been a corner of the home’s ballroom.
How could a cold, impersonal, metal building be better than this—even with wider walkways? I pulled out my phone and tweeted “There’s room for everyone in the library. But maybe not all of us at the same time. Hey, we can stagger entrances and exits. #GoToTheLibrary”
I took the Herald-Tribune back to the circulation desk. I slid it in front of Julie. “Did you see this? Is this what the last council meeting was about?”
She glanced over to see what I was talking about. Nodding, she said, “The council decided that the bond should be big enough to build a new building.”
I nodded. “I get it. So if the vote goes through—new library. But if it doesn’t—we keep this one?” I was comfortable with that.
“Not exactly.”
“Exactly which part not?” I asked, feeling something like dread.
“The second part not. If the bond doesn’t pass, Franklin won’t have a library.”
“Wait. What?”
She didn’t answer. She understood I wasn’t really asking her to repeat herself. She knew me well enough to know that I needed a few seconds to process the news.
I used to think I was smart, but now I was second-guessing that, too. Why was this so hard for me to grasp? The reality started to settle in on me. I took a quiet breath. “So, either way, I lose my library?”
She shook her head. “It’s about more than a building,” she started to say, but I shook my head and picked up the newspaper. “Greta? Are you okay?” Her voice was concerned.
I waved the paper over my head. “Cleaning up,” I said, trying not to cry. Of course the library was more than a building. But this building, my building, was integral to the feeling of the place. The whole package—shelves, people, magazines, musty scents, books, computers, stained-glass windows, creepy neighbor houses—all worked together to make this place I loved. There had to be a way to keep it and still make everyone happy. There had to.
I walked fast to the periodicals room, grateful that nobody else felt the need to look at a newspaper. Me and my stupid tweets, trying to modernize the system by making dumb jokes. What would any of it mean if the city council took away this perfect, shabby, wonderful place? How could I have not understood what was at stake?
It’s not like Julie had been unclear. She’d probably said the same thing several times. Sooner or later, this building I loved would not be my library anymore. I worked on breathing in and out for a minute. Then I thought of all the great arguments I’d make in favor of keeping this building as the library, just in case anyone ever bothered to ask me what I thought about it. Then I breathed some more, grateful for the comfortable silence surrounding me. I’d have to find a way around the financial decisions of the county.
Or else I was in trouble.
This building was more than a workplace for me. It represented my livelihood, my career path. And all the plans I’d made since I was in junior high. I’d gone to college and gotten a master’s degree in library science. Library science. If I didn’t have a library, I didn’t have a job. My stomach lurched at the possibility of finding a non-library job. I wasn’t useless, but without a library, my degree was. I’d have to leave town. I’d have to leave Will.
Never.
I couldn’t move.
But if I lost my job, I’d have to move.
Home.
With my mother.
My knees started to sweat at the thought.
I needed something good to happen. Fast. Now. Evening could not come soon enough. I watched the clock.
Of course, that meant the day dragged on and on. I planned fund-raising proposals in my head. And I went on a pre-date fantasy date with Mac. For the uninitiated, a pre-date fantasy date consists of imagining all the best things that could happen on the date that’s about to happen. Nobody claimed it was rocket science. I imagined Mac knocking on my apartment door, wearing a tux. (Why? Well, why not?) I was in a hoodie and yoga pants. Because comfort. Fantasy-Mac also had an Australian accent. Again, why not?
The other fantasy date details would not be of general interest. No, really. Having tried to explain these details in the past has taught me that other people really don’t care. Even Will. Maybe especially Will.
At six o’clock, Bonita and I both clocked out and walked to the door together. In her gentle way, she reminded me I was nuts to not do a thorough online search of any person with whom I was planning to get into a car. I waved good-bye as she got o
n her bike and sped away. I was still laughing to myself as I passed the Greenwood place. I peeked toward the window and saw something that might have been the face of the old man. In fairness, it might also have been a reflection of a car in the window, or a bird, or nothing at all. Whatever it was, it gave me the chills.
I got different chills when Mac came and picked me up. Much better chills.
But before he got there, I sent my mom a text.
The speed with which she replied might have qualified her for a record.
Track One.
No more questions? No instructions to bring him over on the way home? Well. This was a pleasant derailment from Track One.
It’s not like Franklin was backward, restaurant-wise. We had plenty of restaurants, if you didn’t mind ordering while standing up. There were also super hipster places with tiny portions and enormous prices. So I wasn’t all that surprised when we drove away from town. I was more surprised when we pulled up to a house with statues of many-limbed, nearly naked women in the front yard. Uh-oh. We parked on the street and walked up the path between the statues. Mac touched the tip of one stone woman’s hat with his finger.
As we approached the door, a gorgeous woman with café au lait skin and black shiny hair opened it and led us inside.
“Welcome to Bengaluru,” she said, in a musical voice so soft we both leaned toward her. Well, I leaned because of her voice. Mac might have had different reasons to lean. Her Indian accent was so lovely, hearing her speak was like listening to a song.
“Table for two?” she said, her voice sliding all over the words like they were a melody with way more than four syllables. If I was going to say something about my Indian food issues, my chance was slipping away fast.
Mac nodded, and the woman let us through a silky curtain into a good-sized dining room with candles on tables and spices floating in the air. Every table, set with plates and bowls and silver and glasses, sat empty. This was concerning because I generally chose my restaurants by how long the line was to get in. The longer the line, the more likely it was worth the wait.
I already had opinions on the “worth the wait”-ness of this place.
She gestured with a lovely, graceful hand to a table near a curtained window. “Will this be comfortable?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” Mac pulled a chair out for me. I gulped, smashed my knee into a table leg, and fell into the chair. He pretended not to notice and scooted me close to the table.
I loved that Mac was polite. I loved that Mac was present. I loved the fact of Mac, in all its ramifications.
It was my turn to say something. I was totally keeping track. “This place looks great.” Strange and exotic smells hovered around us, spicy and smoky, making my nose itch. And my memory of the first—and up until now, last—time I’d eaten Indian food made my stomach jump.
“You’ve never been here?” He didn’t sound surprised, really. More like pleased that he was the one introducing me to the magic or something. “Everything’s good.”
I doubted that I’d agree, but I didn’t want to say so. It’s not like I’d had a major food disaster. But a minor food disaster could be just as disastrous.
Short version: College. Dinner with a blind date. Cozy Indian restaurant. Ambiance? Charming. Scents? Delightful. Food? My face melted off and everything tasted like dust. Spicy dust.
I wasn’t about to tell Mac that my taste in exotic food ended at cheeseburgers and pizza.
“How do you know everything’s good? You haven’t even lived here a month. This is a big menu.” I looked at the menu because it was hard to keep eye contact. My bones were soft, my muscles mushy. I felt like I might slip out of my chair.
He shrugged and grinned. “It’s my favorite.”
Be brave, Greta, I told myself. “Want to order for me then?”
“What do you like?” He was talking about food, I had to remind myself.
I tried to remember. “Naan. I really like naan. And I drank something like a mango smoothie once in a place like this.” That pretty much summed it up.
He laughed. Oh, his laugh. “How do you feel about trying new things?”
Were we still talking about dinner? “Totally up for it. Bring it on.”
He grinned again, and I resisted the urge to reach across the table and stroke his face. Barely.
When the gorgeous exotic lady came back, he said words that sounded like “ticky-tocky” and something else that had lots of S sounds in it. He also said “curry,” which I understood, and remembered, and feared.
When she had the order, she bowed and backed away from our table, silent footsteps in an almost empty room.
He handed me a basket covered with a linen napkin. “Take one.”
Warm, delicious, safe naan. I bit off a garlicky chunk and felt grateful for white bread familiarity.
He broke a piece off and put it in his mouth. After chewing for a few seconds, he checked his phone. On a date. Which was weird because everyone knows you Don’t Do That. When he put it down, he put it on his leg, not the table. Not that I would have tried to read his texts, but now the possibility was gone.
“How’s work?” he asked.
I suppressed the urge to unleash a political, historical, or financial rant. “Great,” I said. “We’re going to do a book jam—a bunch of bands playing songs to raise money for the library.”
The beautiful woman came back and handed me a creamy orange drink. “Mango lassi,” she said.
I took a sip. It was like heaven through a straw. I slurped on it for a few seconds and stopped when I realized it was half gone.
“So,” he said. “You’ve got this battle of the bands.”
It sounded so violent when he said it that way. “Not a battle. Just a jam. You know, a gig everyone can come play in.”
“Cool.” He smiled. “How does that make you money?”
“Oh. Ticket sales? And the bands pay to play.” I ate more of the yummy, warm naan.
“A lot?”
I reviewed in my head to get context for what “a lot” might mean. Oh, right. A lot of money.
“Fifty dollars for each band.” As soon as I said it out loud, it seemed ridiculous. Nobody would pay that much for the privilege of doing what they could do at home for free.
He seemed to agree because he grunted out a “huh” sound and took another drink.
I nodded. “I know. It seems rough to ask them to pay fifty bucks to play. But if you’ve got five guys in your band, that’s only ten dollars each, and they get to watch a concert for ten bucks. Not so bad, right?”
“Right. I’d do it.” He tore off another bite of bread. “If I had a band. And fifty bucks.” He made a little shrug like he was asking “What can you do?”
“I know, right? It’s so hard to save money when you have to drive out of town to eat dinner.” As soon as I said it, I wished I could hide. I mean, what kind of dumb do you have to be to talk about spending the guy’s money on a date when you’re actually on the date?
He smiled, though. “Totally worth it. Promise.”
Did he mean the food was worth it? The drive? Me?
When the beautiful lady brought the food, she slid each dish onto the table and uncovered it. My nose itched with the scents. The first one was sort of brown and stewy-looking. So was the second one. And the third. In fact, they all looked exactly like lumpy, saucy, orangey-brownness. With rice.
Mac’s eyes glittered in the candlelight as he served food onto my plate. He told me what each dish was called, and I nodded. I was going to do this. I was eating Indian food again after five years of studious avoidance.
“You’re getting the real deal here,” Mac said. “The good stuff.”
That was promising. Maybe the time I’d tried it before, I’d been eating sub-par curry.
I waited for him to serv
e himself before I put anything on a fork. Just in case I did it wrong. I would have, apparently, because he picked up a spoon. He scooped up a big bite of something brown and—wait for it—saucy. When he put it in his mouth, he made this delighted yummy-face. That was a very good face. I may have previewed in my mind what I could do that would cause him to make that face again. I may have blushed.
I managed a little scoop of what may or may not have been the same food and ate it. Then my eyeballs started to melt and run down to my chin. Trying to hold it all in, I choked back a fire-breathing roar.
I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t see.
I hadn’t imagined it before. It wasn’t a bad curry experience in my past. Apparently there was something wrong with me. I was lacking the gene that made people like Indian food.
No coughing, I told myself. No coughing at least until you swallow. No.
I pushed down all my physical reflexes and swallowed. Honestly? I felt it the whole way down, the fire settling somewhere south of my collarbone and probably planning to stay there until it was time to die. Which, you know, could have been any minute.
Water. Water. I clutched my glass with both hands, vaguely aware that I’d be embarrassed if it spilled. Mostly, though, I didn’t care as long as some of it went into my mouth and followed the path of destruction that used to be my throat.
Gasp. I blinked away some of the tears and swallowed the rest of the water, ice bumping against my teeth. Only when every drop of water was slurped out of my glass did I place it back on the table.
Mac grinned at me, chewing and smiling like this was completely understandable behavior. “Good, right?”
“I can’t feel my tongue.”
He laughed, so I tried to smile and pretend I was joking. Meanwhile, I couldn’t feel my tongue.
I pushed a spoonful of rice into my mouth. Lovely, bland rice.
“Try that one.” Mac gestured to a slightly yellower saucy pile on my plate. I dipped the edge of my spoon into it and let it touch the tip of my tongue. It tasted like dust.
“It tastes like dust.”
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