Book of Mercy (15 page)
Upon a Midnight Clear, a Bibliothèque Was Born
I
T WAS
D
ECEMBER, A
week since Superintendent Mitchell had ignored the review committee’s recommendation. Antigone had sunk into a depression that not even the baby’s playful kicking could lift. She was entering her eighth month, grouchy, and tired of people insisting on doing things for her. She could tie her own boots, thank you very much, and take care of her deer. She wanted everyone to just leave her alone.
At the back of her mind, the events of the past months worried at her like dripping water on stone: She had told the whole town her secret and for what? Nothing. What should she do now?
She pulled on Sam’s barn jacket. Being near the deer would make her feel better. As she opened the front door, she found Ryder’s friend, Ben, and another boy on her doorstep.
“Can we talk with you for a minute?” Ben asked.
Antigone eyed the boy, then Ben. She stepped back and motioned them into the house.
The boy was younger than Ben, maybe thirteen, with gangly arms and legs and pants tugged low on his boney hips by a huge chain snaking from a belt loop to a wallet and a clutch of keys shoved inside one baggy pocket. Antigone could see the tops of the boy’s baby blue striped boxers. His dark hair spiked out at all angles, and he seemed to be unaware that the fingers on one hand were tapping relentlessly on his leg.
“Marshall wants to use your library,” Ben explained.
“Use it?” Antigone was confused.
The boy called Marshall twisted his body and seemed to glide closer to her. He scanned the room, his eyes shifting from left to right in a face that had an innocent, rubbery quality. “I heard you’re getting some cool books, and I, like,
devour
information,” he whispered.
“Is he for real?” Antigone asked Ben.
Ben smiled. “Marshall likes to know things: quantum physics, energy, computer technology.” He stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Marshall’s a good guy. He’s smart. I told him about this place because we’re starting to get some pretty unusual stuff in here that he might find interesting.”
As more and more kids brought books to Antigone for safekeeping, the house and café had taken on the feel of a maze. She glanced at the books piled in stacks along the walls of the living room, the bookshelves long since filled. She supposed she could have said no to the children and their bags of books, but what do you say to a kid who’s afraid his parents are going to take exception to his
Harry Potter
collection?
Ben pressed her. “Marshall just likes information—on the Net or in a book. It’s not like he’s going to research how to build a bomb or something.”
Antigone looked startled, and Marshall held up a hand. “No bombs, I promise. Bombs are so, like, loud. I just want to see what you have.”
As Ben and Antigone watched Marshall poke around, she said, “I still can’t believe all this.” She motioned to the stacks. “I thought kids spent all their time staring at screens—computers, e-readers, televisions. I thought books were so—yesterday.”
Ben said, “Marshall’s on the computer night and day, but books are his best friends.”
Seeing the absorbed Marshall, sitting Indian style on her living room floor with opened volumes balanced on both knees and on the floor around him, she had to agree. He flitted from one book to another like a hummingbird. He was so at home and so happy, his busy fingers tapping, tapping.
After a bit of flitting, Marshall settled on two books—one on political history and one on science. “Could I, like, borrow these?” he asked.
And that’s when it hit Antigone. Who needed the Mercy High School library? She had one right here. Kids could read whatever they wanted. Everyone would be on the honor system. It would decrease the number of books she was tripping over, and it would drive Irene and the Study Club crazy. Antigone’s lips curved. The baby kicked. Who would have thought that she would end up a librarian? She turned to Marshall, “Take whatever you want. Just take care of them.” After all, she was still Henry and Annaliese’s daughter.
“I’ll guard them with my life,” said Marshall with a salute.
Three days later, he returned and brought a friend who borrowed three books. The friend also left a grocery bag of his own books, plus several from his dad’s shelf of Civil War history books.
And so it began. An underground library. When Sam complained about all the strange children slipping in and out of the house, Antigone moved the library to the vacant building she owned beside the O. Henry Café. At one time a law office, it had plenty of bookshelves. The office and café shared a wall and connecting door, which became the library entrance so William the cook could keep an eye on the comings and goings. Sam, Ryder, and Ben moved the books. Star dusted and organized. Even with so many shelves, the room soon took on the look of Antigone’s house with stacks growing from the floor.
Star insisted that everyone who brought a book write his or her name in it. “They ought to be able to take them back when they want,” she said. “And if we don’t know who a book belongs to, what do we do? We’ve got three stacks of
Harry Potters
.”
As a final touch, Star painted a sign and William nailed it above the door to the library. It said: Our Bookhenge.
There was a steady stream of children—and books—traveling through the O. Henry Café that December. While the rest of Mercy chained holiday wreaths to their doors and cursed contrary Christmas tree lights, Bookhenge exploded in a spirit of giving. No one kept track of the books; no one supervised what someone else read; no one mutilated the books they didn’t like or agree with; no one plucked the words they found distasteful from the pages with razor blades. There was something pristine about the library Antigone built, something that shone like a beacon that child after child followed to a new land.
And each time Antigone watched a child walk out the door, clutching a book to his or her chest, she felt like throwing her arms in the air and whirling around until she was dizzy. Her happiness was heady—all mixed up with the children’s joy, her reluctant evolution into a librarian, and the satisfaction of outmaneuvering Irene. “Take that, you pie thrower,” she said.
Food for Thought
N
OTHING WAS GOING AS
Irene Crump had planned. The members of the Mercy Study Club, the school’s temporary librarians, grumbled about the boredom, the hours, the rudeness of the few students who still used the school library. Most of the students preferred Antigone’s library, which was another thorn festering in Irene’s side. “That detestable library is undermining everything,” Irene told her husband.
“It’s a classic example of women making a fuss over something that isn’t of the slightest importance,” Arthur said, snapping open the paper to the sports section and pushing aside a ruffled pillow. He was finishing breakfast at the kitchen banquette.
“Thanks for your support.” Irene made a face at him.
Not looking up, he said, “What did you expect? It’s forbidden fruit. You and your lists have made those books as tempting as free porn.”
Irene puffed up, stiffened her spine, and was about to set her husband straight when the phone rang. It was a club member in hysterics because she found a book on the banned list under her daughter’s bed along with a well-worn baseball mitt, a slice of pizza, and a rhinestone tiara. “I was looking for dirty underwear and found a dirty book,” said the angry club member, who then lowered her voice. “It’s that Blume book, for gawdsakes.
Forever.
I thought we got rid of that one. My twelve-year-old baby has been reading about birth control and masturbation, Irene. What good is what we’re doing if they’re getting this stuff anyway?”
Irene had already had one loud and unpleasant discussion with Superintendent Mitchell about Antigone and her books. The man was useless in a real crisis, as most men were, in Irene’s opinion. He hid behind school policy and boundaries: “What can I do, Irene? My authority ends with school property.”
Irene was so tired of dealing with idiots, as Arthur put it. Her days were consumed with reassuring those who agreed with her and battling those who did not. Gazing around her, at her beautiful kitchen, the room she loved, with everything exactly where she wanted it, she wished she could stay here forever and never step foot in another library or handle another book or talk with another “concerned citizen.” Her kitchen was an appliance paradise with all the latest culinary gadgets plus small custom-made refrigerators strategically concealed in drawers and cabinets so Alice could grab a juice box on her way to soccer or Arthur could pluck a carton of cream for his morning coffee without leaving the banquette. The walk-in pantry was so large that Irene often forgot what was in it. One day while organizing the pantry, Cecily discovered nine bottles of ketchup. She heard Cecily mutter, “What does anyone need with nine bottles of ketchup?”
In her kitchen, butcher block cutting boards slid from hidden places so that wherever she was, Irene could chop up a storm. On that Saturday morning, she needed every one of them. Arthur had informed her over breakfast that someone had made an offer on their house, on this sunny, beautiful kitchen; on her darling solarium; on her shower with the gold fixtures that bombarded and massaged her with hot water from every angle.
“I’m going to build you the house of your dreams, honey,” Arthur said full of smiles.
“
This
is the house of my dreams.” Irene looked at him.
“We’re going to make a bundle off this, Irene. I’m telling you that Japanese couple is gaga over the place.” Arthur sniggered. “They didn’t even haggle. I threw out some wild, you-wouldn’t-believe price and they bit. Some people just have too much money.”
“But I
love
this house,” Irene said.
“It’s just a house!”
“It’s our home.”
“I’ve got some great ideas for the new place. How about a fountain in the foyer? Like one of those Italian villas with statues of angels. We could even put real goddamn fish in the fountain. What are they called?”
“Koi.”
“Yeah, koi.”
As her happy husband banged out the back door, headed for the golf course, Irene began pulling vegetables from the crisper.
W
HEN
A
RTHUR RETURNED FOUR
hours later, Irene was still slicing and dicing—and arguing with Art Junior. The counters were piled with chopped lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, squash, peppers, radishes, cucumbers, and onions. Everywhere Irene looked was salad out of control.
Still, she attacked more vegetables. Her professional chef’s knife probably could have sliced lead pipe, so bell peppers were no match for it. As she sliced and slashed with fury, Art Junior turned to his father and whined, “The Jeep doesn’t have any power, Dad. I’m gonna take it in to Sam.”
“Like you need more get up and go,” Irene muttered.
Arthur snagged a pepper slice and popped it in his mouth. “All right, son. Put it on the tab.”
“I don’t want him taking the Jeep to Sam.”
“Why not?” Arthur stared at Irene, shocked. “Sam takes care of all our vehicles.”
“Not anymore,” Irene said.
Art Junior stole a radish from the cutting board. “She’s mad about this library thing. I think it’s dumb. Who cares about some old books? Sam’s the best,” he said, ignoring his mother. “I’ll take it to Sam.”
“You do and you’re grounded.” Irene whacked a head of cabbage in half. “Again.”
“Are you nuts?” Art Junior exclaimed. “Dad, do something!”
Arthur nodded toward the door. “I’ll handle your mother.”
Art Junior and his father exchanged smug looks.
“I saw that!” Irene said.
“Women!” Art Junior grumbled, grabbing a soda and slamming the back door.
Arthur pulled a Michelob from one of the refrigerators. “Irene, you don’t understand about machinery. Sam’s got a sixth sense about mechanical stuff. I’m not putting all my equipment in the hands of an idiot, just because you got a bee in your bonnet.”
“And I’m telling you, if you so much as take a riding lawnmower to Sam’s Garage, I’ll-I’ll . . .” Irene exploded, grabbing armloads of chopped vegetables and flinging them at her husband. Arthur froze then slowly pulled a julienne radish from the top of his head. He watched her warily as she waved the chef’s knife in front of his nose. Finally, it too rocketed from her hand and stuck in a nearby chopping board, point down, vibrating. He winced.
“And I am
not
leaving my home, Arthur Patrick Crump. But you can. You can do whatever you want,” she said, “but you do it alone.”
Arthur dropped the can of beer in the sink. It sprayed all over him. “How’d we get from salad to divorce?”
“Somewhere at the radishes, I think.” Irene lifted her nose and waltzed from the room.
Whisperers Win
T
HE WOMAN BESIDE
A
NTIGONE
panted, winked at her, and kept on panting. She was young; this was her first baby, too. Her husband coached her as if he were channeling his inner Vince Lombardi, barking out encouragement about winning and scoring and working hard—and all he had to do was hold her hand. She smiled at Antigone.
