Check Me Out

by Becca Wilhite

  This is it, I thought. The part where the camera pulls back and reveals the gullible young woman who has knowingly put herself into the clutches of Evil.

  When he was about a foot away from me, he stopped and held out his hand. I put my hand in my pocket to give him back his handkerchief, but apparently he had something else in mind.

  “It appears we have not been properly introduced. The last Mr. Greenwood to live in this house was my mother’s father. My name is Joshua Silver.”

  Chapter 32

  My gasp may have sucked in all the remaining air from the neighborhood. Several seconds passed before I noticed that the old man was waiting for me to shake his hand, introduce myself, or close my mouth. I couldn’t manage to do any of those things.

  “Joshua Silver? Dr. Joshua Silver? That’s you?”

  He nodded. “Joshua Greenwood Silver. And you’re Greta, as I recall.”

  That bumped me out of the zone, and I took his offered hand. “Greta Roxanne Elliott.”

  “A pleasure to meet you officially, Miss Elliott.”

  He took a step back, but I didn’t let go of his hand, and my mouth ran off without my brain. “You’re my hero. You’re the notorious civil-rights activist hero of Franklin. You’re the man who integrated the Midwest. I have a historical crush on you.” I slapped my other hand over my mouth to stop myself. A little too late.

  “And you seem to have a tendency toward overstatement.” He removed his hand from my clutch and turned to look at the lot and the gathering crowd. “You also have something of the activist in you.”

  Was he angry? He hadn’t seemed angry before, but now his back was to me and I couldn’t tell.

  “Joshua Greenwood Silver?” This was probably not the most important part of the conversation we were having, but it was the part my brain stuck on. “Was your mom a Greenwood?”

  He looked surprised. “Yes. Her name was Evelyn. She lived in this house.”

  I may have done another gasp. “I know. She sparked in the back garden with a man named Walt.”

  He either laughed or cleared his throat. Maybe both. “Walter Silver is my father’s name.”

  If I clapped my hands together, I did so quietly. “I have a package of their love letters at the library,” I said. “You have to come and see them.”

  Mr. Greenwood-turned-Dr. Silver possibly decided that I’d dodged the important subject long enough.

  “What’s in the barrel, Miss Elliott?”

  I pointed to the side of the house where I’d cleared out the junk around the lot. “A few dozen phone books from the pile. I only used the most damaged ones.” I couldn’t believe how calm I felt telling this man I’d stolen his garbage and lit it on fire in his driveway. When I took a deep breath, I smelled the reek of hot rubber and felt compelled to continue my confession. “And a tire, but it was in the barrel already. A few squirts of hand sanitizer to make it start burning fast. I learned that in high school chemistry.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re staging a protest on my property.”

  I started to fidget. “Actually, there’s a property easement in the gravel there.” I pointed to the lot. It occurred to me that if I had planned to deny my involvement, I’d waited too long. “Dr. Silver, I love this library. I just wanted to stir people up so they’d remember they love it, too.”

  He turned to face me again. “I understand the urge.”

  A laugh escaped my mouth. My shoulders relaxed, and I looked back to the burning barrel.

  “And,” he continued, as if a chatty conversation about radicalism late at night on his porch in November wasn’t at all strange, “I understand the connection one can feel to a beautiful old building.”

  My thoughts were uncharitable at best. Right. You love this house so much that you cover it in garbage. I glanced at him to see if he heard my thoughts.

  Possibly.

  “Look inside, if you please.” He reached over and opened the front door. Dim lamplight revealed an immaculate living room decorated with what looked to me like gorgeous antique furniture. The paintings on the walls were tasteful and elegant. He looked at me to make sure I’d seen, then closed the door.

  “It’s a historical monument, this old house. It’s on the register. There’s a marker.” He waved behind his back, somewhere toward the street, in a dismissive gesture. “The building is important to the historical society.” He looked at me again. “The building. Not who lives in it now, or who may have lived in it before. So according to the powers that be”—the lift of his eyebrow left me in no doubt of his feelings—“I must not throw anything away that belongs to the home.”

  He stopped talking, and I waited. Nothing else seemed to be coming, and so I followed his gaze to the piles of trash and junk littering his porch and lot.

  When understanding hit me, it hit hard. An unfeminine “Ha!” escaped my mouth. Followed by, “You’re protesting?” The words came out faster, louder, and far higher in pitch than I’d intended. “The garbage, the mess—it’s in protest?”

  He could have been offended. He probably should have been. But when he looked at me, I saw his eyes crinkled up. The half-smile on his face made him look at least a decade younger. He didn’t answer, exactly—he just gave a single nod. We had achieved an understanding.

  “How many years have you been staging this particular protest?”

  He didn’t answer the question directly. “When my employment situation changed suddenly several decades ago,” he said, “I found refuge in this old house. My parents had both passed, leaving me in comfort, at least financially.” He looked toward the window, but curtains made it impossible to see inside. “Sometimes a place we love can shelter us. Buildings were meant to protect people. But a building is more than bricks and mortar. What happens inside tends to shape the spirit of the place.”

  Marigold would adore this guy.

  “Mr. Silver,” I said, still grasping for belief that I was talking to the one and only Joshua Silver, “I had no idea that my, um, demonstration might make trouble for you. What can I do to fix this?”

  He shifted on the junk-filled porch to stand with his back against the door. “Don’t do a thing. Don’t say anything to anyone. Keep silent. Let’s see how it pans out.”

  I felt dismissed, like I should walk away, but I had to make sure. “Does that mean you’re not going to report me?”

  The left side of his face lifted again in that half grin, and I could see the suit-and-hat-wearing man from the photographs, still there under years of aging and sadness.

  “I am certainly not going to report you. But I will expect a little something from you.”

  Shoot. I was so stunned to find out that Old Man Greenwood was actually Dr. Joshua Silver that I had forgotten to protect myself from the possible crazy murderer. I took three quick steps backward, nearly upending what looked like a paint can full of nails.

  “I know that to your mind, I’m some old man who happens to live next door to your work.” Was that all he thought? Well, then, that was a win for everyone. “But I do have some experience that can be useful to you. I expect you to make use of your resources. Ask me questions. Compare your experiences to mine.” He reached for the doorknob. “And the next time you’re looking for a job, I want you to come to me first.” He bowed in my direction before letting himself inside.

  I ran off the porch and pushed through the gathering crowd toward home, every few steps looking at my hands. I’d met Dr. Silver. I’d shaken his hand.

  I let myself inside and locked up.

  I got on my librarian Twitter account and tweeted, “A vote to close the Franklin library is like a vote to burn books. #SaveFranklinLibrary”

  Then I pulled up the shared file I was making on my Dr. Silver research. Reading over both my notes and Will’s notes about Dr. Silver’s protests, I coul
dn’t help but see some similarities in our stories. He had pushed boundaries to help people get the educational opportunities they deserved. Some people hated it. I pushed some boundaries of my own. And sure, not everyone was thrilled. But maybe I could help bring about the change of heart needed to keep the library open.

  When I slid into the bed, I smelled the reek of oily smoke in my hair. I fell asleep smiling.

  Chapter 33

  I sat on the couch, clutching my laptop and looking up every news story that mentioned what happened at the library. It was all over the internet, but it was the same basic story on every site: “Local library unconnected with act of protest and vandalism, blah, blah.” I couldn’t decide how to feel about it.

  An hour of morning TV news later, I heard a knock on the door. I glanced through the peephole. Will.

  “Hi,” I said as I opened the door.

  He didn’t say anything, just held out a bag from Ruby’s.

  I took it. It smelled like onions. “Did you buy me an omelet?”

  “You probably want to eat it while it’s hot. And I have to get to work.” He smiled. “I hope you have a great day.”

  “Will,” I said as he headed down the stairs to the parking lot, “thank you for this. You always know what I need.”

  He smiled up at me over his shoulder. “I try.”

  And then he was in his car. Not a word about the fire, or the protest, or the way he was going to use it in his civics and debate classes that day. Because of course he was going to use it. It was high-school-teaching gold. So why didn’t he mention it?

  He knew. Of course he knew. He’d wait until I was ready to talk about it, and then he’d listen to me and tell me the truth. Whatever the truth was.

  The thought made me sad.

  I had rarely been more grateful for a Monday off. My mom called and wanted me to meet her for lunch, but I knew how that would go. A forty-five minute conversation bouncing between the library protest and my relationship with Mac? I felt good about telling her I had other plans.

  My plans consisted of eating half the omelet for breakfast, standing under the shower until the water went cold, going back to bed for several hours, eating the rest of the omelet for lunch, and obsessing over TV news, internet news, and Twitter.

  I didn’t hear from Mac all day.

  I was thankful for the early sunset. I went to bed at six-thirty.

  Election day dawned cold and gray and icy. I tried not to see that as an omen. When I slipped into the polling station before work, I kept my sunglasses on. I knew it was silly to think anyone would recognize me, or if they did, would connect me to the fire, but I found myself hunching over the ballot and glancing over my shoulder.

  The longest day only lasts twenty-four hours, but this one seemed so much longer. I went to work just before ten and spent the next eight hours checking my phone for messages from Mac or Will (there were none) and looking at the county election results website (which was apparently not working). I busied myself in the basement (braving the creepies since Kevin was at school) moving boxes around. When I had to come upstairs, I ignored everyone who looked like they had a question. But I listened. And I noticed who said the words library or fire.

  Getting out of the library for lunch was nonnegotiable. I wanted to ask if anyone wanted me to pick up anything, but I found that I could not, in fact, speak. Icy drizzle leaked from the sky. I pulled my hood over my head and hid in my coat all the way to Happy’s.

  I patted Mr. Greenwood’s—Dr. Silver’s—oak tree as I walked past.

  Julie was on the phone when I came back, so I waved, swiped my time card, and ran up the stairs to clean up kid book messes. There were plenty of misplaced books to keep me busy for a half hour. I was glad to be up there. I dreaded speaking to Julie. More specifically, having to answer questions. Or make eye contact.

  I walked down the stairs with my arms full of downstairs books. A woman with helmet-y hair stood at the circulation desk.

  “Greta,” Julie said, “this is Marnie Blum.”

  I recognized her name; she was the woman of all opinions from the newspaper. I nodded.

  Ms. Blum held her hand out to me. “I’m representing the city council.” She turned back to Julie and leaned her elbows on the counter.

  Julie took a tiny step back from the other side of the desk.

  “I wonder,” she continued, “if you’d like to make a comment about the disturbance Sunday night.” She was facing Julie, but I couldn’t make myself walk away.

  “Thank you for asking. I think I’d rather not.” Julie sat with her head perfectly straight, looking directly at Ms. Marnie Blum, attorney. I knew that meant she was ready to end her visit as quickly as possible.

  “I wonder if you’ve heard any response from the community.”

  I couldn’t breathe. And I still couldn’t walk away.

  Julie shook her head.

  Ms. Marnie Blum, attorney, leaned farther over the counter. “Because between you and me, I can’t imagine this little stunt will hurt you at the polls today.”

  The shiver that overtook me was so violent, I almost dropped the stack of books I carried. Was she accusing Julie? Did she suspect me? Gathering up the sliding books, I skittered past the desk without looking at anyone. After I put a few books away, I peeked around the corner to see how Julie was holding up.

  It didn’t look so great.

  Ms. Marnie Blum, attorney, was gone, but Julie still stood in the same place.

  Bonita walked past and touched Julie’s shoulder. I stacked a few more books. Looked again. More touching. Sometimes a squeeze, sometimes a pat, sometimes a little circle rubbed on her back.

  I knew how Bonita felt. Julie looked damaged, and we wanted to fix her. Bonita tried to fix her in her own way, and I tried in mine. I went to the north corner and dusted the stained glass windows. I turned all the computer monitors to face the same direction, checking every ten minutes to see if the election result website was back up. It wasn’t. I put chairs in front of tables so they lined up like perfect geometric formations. After every little job, I’d sneak back to where I could see her.

  I had to hear what she heard.

  If someone told her anything, I wanted to know it.

  My better side shouted at me through the smoke and haze of my guilt, “If anyone tells her anything it should be me.” But I couldn’t tell her. Not now.

  Not as long as she kept turning around and seeing me there and saying, “Greta, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Minutes lasted ages, but hours moved fast. I wasn’t the only one not talking. The library was as quiet as any stereotypical old-lady librarian could have wanted. And it felt so wrong. I wanted the life-filled library, not the waiting-for-the-death-sentence one.

  Kevin came in at four. He perched in his spot at the counter and repaired paperbacks. I couldn’t help thinking these were books we’d have to give away, sell, or recycle if the bond didn’t pass. He refreshed the election website every ten minutes, and every ten minutes, he told us it still wasn’t working. He gave long, theoretical possibilities as to why. We all ignored him.

  At six, I was supposed to go home. I didn’t. Neither did Bonita. We found little jobs to keep us busy, shivering in the wind every time the door opened. The door didn’t open all that many times. Will sent a message asking if I was home, but I answered that I was staying late. He asked if I wanted him to come in. I said no. I couldn’t think how to talk to him. Or anyone. At eight o’clock, Julie turned off the lights and shooed us all out the door.

  “We’ll find out tomorrow,” she said, as if we’d been having a conversation.

  Bonita nodded and patted Julie’s shoulder. “Tomorrow. It will be good news.”

  On the way home, I passed the senior citizens’ center that was being used as a polling station. One of my signs stuck out of the grass at a
strange angle. Someone had moved it. Maybe someone took it away because it was offensive, and someone else put it back because of free speech. Maybe it was too close to the door so it blocked entry. Maybe I was overthinking. But the sign was there. No money to burn. Plenty of books.

  Someone had taped a paper sign on top of my magnetic sign. It said, “#SaveFranklinLibrary.” I felt a glimmer of gladness. I hadn’t put it there. Someone else cared.

  I knew Mac was closing Beans that night, so I stopped in for a quick minute and a cup of cinnamon hot chocolate. I felt exhausted from the day—like there was a physical weight on my shoulders. And things had been uncomfortable and weird between us, and I was through with things feeling uncomfortable and weird. I wanted to make things light and happy in at least one corner of my world.

  The bell announced me, but Mac didn’t look up. He was absorbed in the customer in front of him. She was looking absorbed too. They were in a definite lean. I walked to the end of the line and stood (hid) behind the large man standing behind the girl. Mac looked down at the counter and then up at the girl through his eyelashes. Apparently he knew how well that look worked. It had certainly always worked on me. He shook those perfect curls, and I felt a sick swoop in my stomach. My neck felt like it was on fire.

  He reached across the narrow counter and put his hand on hers. She leaned and giggled.

  The big man in front of me cleared his throat, as though he had something better to do than stand in line watching Mac hold some girl’s hand.

  Mac looked up at him, gave his perfect smile, and said, “I’ll be right with you.” Then he leaned closer to the girl again.

  I heard him say, “Grab a seat at that table over there. The red chair. Then I can see you from any angle behind the counter.”

  Wait. No. He didn’t. But yes. He did.

  I wanted to throw up, then die, then punch him in his perfect nose, then die again. That chair was mine. That spot. Those were words he said to me.