Louisiana Saves the Library (17 page)

Sylvia dimmed the lights and plugged her laptop into the projector. “We just want to give y'all a taste of what we have been doing.”

“Name and address, please,” Mrs. Gunderson said.

“Sylvia Jones, 5990 Whitehorse Way, Saint Jude.”

Mrs. Gunderson made a disgusted noise, her comment on Sylvia's outsider status.

Louise recited her own address while Sylvia punched a button on the laptop. A photo of the B sisters filled the screen.

“This is your community,” Sylvia said. “We'd like to think that it's now our community as well. And we are here to serve it—to serve you—any way we can.”

Louise took over projection duties, switching to a picture of a group of high school students around a table of books in the library.

“Education doesn't stop with the classroom, or when the kids leave school, or when they reach a certain age. We provide a variety of different programs for children and adults in a variety of different areas—fitness, art, reading, and more,” Sylvia said.

Louise advanced to photos of the adult book club, the Zumba class, the children's story time, and Sylvia teaching a group of teenagers to make memory books.

Sylvia continued, “We all have things to learn every day. To help us advance our careers, make more money, have better lives, and have more fun. All of these things are important. And we can do it all. This library is not just about books. Libraries are about expanding opportunities for everyone. No one is excluded because they are too old, too young, or too poor. We serve everyone. But right now, our budget is stretched. Last year, the voters didn't approve our tax. Louise and I were hired using a grant from the feds. That grant expires this year. If this tax doesn't pass, we'll both be laid off. There wouldn't be enough staff left to continue the expanded hours in the main library or to try doing the same at the other branches. In fact, all the branches of the library would have to start closing on Mondays to save money. The book-buying budget would be frozen. Essentially, this library would slowly die and we'd lose everything we worked for.”

Sylvia paused and Louise clicked ahead to a photo of the outside of the building. “The passage of the tax would mean we could make a few improvements. We need to do maintenance on our building, which dates back to the 1980s. We need money for new technology—updated computers, software, CDs and DVDs, e-readers, e-books. We also need more staff to help us expand our hours, our programs, and our outreach to those who can't come to us. The extra hundred fifty thousand dollars per year we expect to receive from this tax isn't a lot, but it would allow us to at least move forward rather than backward.”

“If that is all, Ms. Sylvia, we will go to a vote,” Foster said.

“Now hang on here one minute.” Hope came up the aisle, went to the microphone, and stated her name and address. “I didn't support these two troublemakers when they got here, nohow. Thought they were just a couple of Yankees looking to stir things up.”

“Hey, I'm no Yankee,” Sylvia said.

Hope held up her hand. “But I've come around. These here ladies care about this community. I reckon Ms. Louise woulda rather stayed at Louisiana A&M at first and maybe even Ms. Sylvia too. But then, they fell for the place, the people here. Louisiana even bought that place up by my cousin Sal's. 'Cause we are good people. And we want to better ourselves in all the ways she done talked about and some she didn't. We can't be depending on Saint Jude and New Orleans to carry us on their backs no more. We got to do for ourselves. And these two here are gonna help us with that. That's all.”

Ms. Trudy and her friends, the B family, and a few others around them clapped. Louise felt a tiny sliver of hope return.

Ms. Trudy came forward, told her name and address, and cleared her throat. “I just want to speak for myself, Ms. Brianna, Ms. Eloise, and Ms. Eleanor . . .”

“Please get to the point, Ms. Trudy,” Mrs. Gunderson interrupted.

“All of us who use the library. We have been enriched by all these ladies have done, and I believe they have earned our support.” Ms. Trudy returned to her seat.

“We have a few more requests to speak,” the secretary said.

Ursula, the woman who had complained about her daughter's book selection, stood up. She wore a gray suit and a grim expression. Louise's hope wavered.

“Please approach the microphone and state your name and address,” Foster said.

Breaux leaned over and whispered, “That's Ursula Broussard. She runs this group called Tax Free Louisiana. She's against everything.”

Ursula recited her name and address. “I just don't see why we need a library at all. Kids have libraries in their schools. The rest of us got the Internet and Books-A-Million. The time I went in the library, I just saw a bunch of old ladies getting romances and trash like that. I mean, really, they could start a book swap or something. We already pay too many taxes for things like this. People need to take care of their own selves and not expect the government to do everything for them.”

“Thank you, Ms. Broussard, for your opinion,” Foster said. “Anyone else?”

A parade of taxpayers followed Ursula Broussard's lead. Most of them said basically the same thing. Louise slumped farther down in her chair. The whole town seemed to be against the library.

Breaux leaned over again. “Don't think too much of this. They're all on the same team, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't.”

“I mean, they're all friends of Gunderson. She trots them out whenever she's opposed to something. Gets them to sound off and make it look like the whole community's against whatever it is.”

A man in work boots and jeans that sagged in back concluded his speech about welfare parasites and returned to his seat.

Foster banged his gavel again. “I declare the public hearing closed. It is time to call the question. Do we have a motion?”

“I make a motion that we pass this. I mean, we should try to get this tax on the ballot,” Pratt said.

Mrs. Gunderson folded her arms over her ample chest. The other jurors stared at the table. Pratt nudged her friend, but Delilah ignored her.

“Motion dies for lack of a second,” Breaux said, writing in his notebook.

Sylvia stood up. “Wait, you can't do this.”

Foster fixed her with his emotionless blue eyes. “The public hearing is over. Please sit down.”

Sylvia obeyed, looking a question at Breaux.

He shrugged. “There's nothing we can do right now.”

“I make a motion that we revisit this at our next meeting,” Pratt said.

“By then, it will be too late to get it on the ballot in May,” Mrs. Gunderson said.

Foster put the agenda in front of his face again. “Next item.”

Hope made a “huff” noise before heading for the exit. Louise and Sylvia followed. Back in the truck, Louise was colder than ever. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” Hope said, fiddling with the dashboard heat control. “It's over.”

“No, it's not,” Sylvia said. “The May election isn't the last one ever.”

“Might as well be. They ain't gonna put it on the ballot.”

“I wish you'd told me that our jobs were paid for by a grant that's about to expire before I bought a house out here,” Louise said.

“I just found out.” Sylvia put her laptop on the floor between her feet. “Mr. Henry didn't give me the numbers until this afternoon. I don't know why. Could be he forgot, or maybe he and Mr. Foley didn't want us to know.”

Hope revved the engine on the truck. “I knew things was tight, but I didn't know about no grant either. Y'all better start working on saving your jobs.”

“Thanks for the tip. Got any ideas?” Sylvia asked.

“Nope. You might could try praying.”

C
HAPTER
25

S
al stood on Louise's porch holding his father's old canvas tool bag. He kept it in the truck for quick fixes around the farm. Until he came back to Alligator Bayou, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed being surrounded by familiar, old things: his dad's tools, his mom's wooden spoons, the land itself. All of it gave him a sense of identity, of home. Louise didn't have any of that. She was starting over, just like he did when he went to Chicago. It was no easy thing.

He shifted the bag to his left hand and rang the doorbell. Nothing. Well, there wouldn't be a shortage of jobs for him to do for her. He took a screwdriver out of his bag and detached the doorbell from the siding.

Sal was so engrossed in the job that he forgot to knock. When the door swung open, he was startled. Louise stood in the doorway wearing her usual jeans and black T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looked stunning. “Your doorbell's broken,” he said.

“I know.” She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear.

Zoe peeked at him from around her mother's legs. Sal winked at her and she disappeared again.

“This thing's pretty old. I think I'll just pick up a new one for you.” Sal replaced the doorbell and put the screwdriver back in the tool bag.

“You don't have to do that,” Louise said, stepping aside so he could come in.

“I want to. Anyway, strawberry season's over so I need a project.”

“So, I'm your project?”

Inside, the house smelled like butter and cinnamon. Sal's stomach grumbled. “Just to be fair, I can be your project too. Especially if the project involves your cooking.”

Louise walked through the living room to the kitchen and grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall. “It's nice to have an appreciative audience. The kids won't eat most of what I make. I end up having leftovers for lunch until I get so sick of the stuff I can barely stand it.”

Sal straddled one of the cane-bottomed kitchen chairs. Next time he came, he'd bring some paint for the hideous pink cabinets. He'd ask Louise, but he thought chocolate would match the floor and walls and wouldn't show too much dirt.

Zoe tiptoed in from the hallway and stared. Sal patted the chair next to him, but she didn't move.

Max ran into the kitchen. “Hey, what's that?”

“My tool bag,” Sal said. “Do you want to see what's inside?”

The boy nodded. Both children crept forward as he took things out of the bag—screwdrivers, a hammer, wrenches, a towel rack.

“What's that?” Max asked.

“The towel rack we're going to put in your bathroom.”

“Let's do it.”

“Don't get in Mr. Sal's way,” Louise said. She poured rice into one of the pots on the stove and then turned to stir something in another pan.

“They're going to help, right, guys?” Sal said.

“You might get more than you bargained for.” Louise opened the refrigerator. “I suggest you take a beer with you.”

“I can't say no to that,” Sal said. He accepted the bottle and picked up his tool bag.

Max and Zoe followed him to the bathroom. The room was so small that Sal had to wedge himself between the toilet and the wall. The kids stood by the pedestal sink, eyeing him as though he were an exotic and possibly dangerous animal.

“Where should we put it?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Max said, taking a step forward.

The only place to put the rack was right over the toilet. As soon as Sal turned on the drill, Zoe ran out the door. Max watched with his mouth hanging slightly open.

“Can I do that?” the boy asked.

“No, but you can find a screwdriver for me,” Sal said.

By the time they were finished installing the rack and fixing the sink, Sal had explained the function of every item in the tool bag twice.

“Dinner's ready,” Louise called from the kitchen.

Sal gathered up his beer and tools. Max trailed him to the table and insisted that they sit next to each other. He put his napkin on his lap, copying Sal.

Louise set out bowls of rice, applesauce, and coleslaw. There was a platter of thick pork chops right in front of Sal's place setting. He lifted the largest one onto his plate.

“I want one too,” Max said.

“Okay.” Sal put one on his plate and began cutting it into small pieces.

“I want it big like yours.”

“I'm going to cut mine up as soon as I finish yours,” Sal said.

Louise passed the applesauce across the table. “I haven't cooked like this since . . .” She trailed off, scooping rice onto Zoe's plate.

“I know,” Sal said. “You don't need to say it.”

“Yeah.” Louise pushed the rice bowl toward him. “But I don't miss him. Not even a little bit.”

“Miss who?” Max asked.

“Hey, buddy, tell your mom what we did,” Sal said.

“We used a drill. It was loud.”

“Loud.” Zoe put her hands over her ears.

During dinner, Sal learned the names of all Zoe's friends at school and Max's favorite superheroes. Zoe wished she were a dog. Max wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. Sal found all their views and ideas hilarious. Louise had clearly heard it all before, but she still smiled.

After dinner, Sal volunteered to get the kids ready for bed while Louise did the dishes. The relief in her face when he offered made him sad. He worked hard all day, but after dinner he could watch TV and go to bed rather than tend to the endless needs of small children.

By the time he'd finished getting the kids into their pajamas, brushing their teeth, finding Zoe's misplaced stuffed rabbit, and reading Max three Spider-Man books, he was ready for another beer. Instead, he sat on Zoe's bed, his legs stretched out on top of her princess comforter. The girl was wary of him at first. By the time he finished the second book, she'd crept up from the end of the bed and snuggled up next to him, pressing her bony shoulder against his side.

“One more book! One more book!”

“I think I'm falling asleep.” Sal put his head down on something that was either a pillow or a fat purple unicorn and made snoring noises.

“Wake up, Mr. Sal! Wake up!”

Sal opened his eyes. “Okay, just one more. Your brother's already asleep, you know.”

Zoe reached into the bookshelf above her bed and grabbed a book, apparently at random. Reading the story about Minnie Mouse and friends, Sal held onto the moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always pictured himself as a dad putting his kids to bed. Along the line, it had gone wrong somehow. The opportunity had passed by without him even realizing it.

When he came back to the living room, Louise was opening a bottle of wine.

“I'm ready for a glass of that for sure,” he said, leaning against the counter.

“They don't stop, do they?” Louise poured two glasses. “I mean, they're great, but it's exhausting.”

“I see that. It took me five minutes to convince Max to open his mouth so I could brush his teeth.”

“That's not bad. It usually takes me at least six.”

“So, what's going on with your job?” Sal sat down on the couch and sipped his wine.

Louise lowered herself onto an armchair. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her ponytail was falling out of its elastic holder. “I don't know what we're going to do. Sylvia and I are paid with a grant. If we don't get that money next year, we'll be laid off.”

“I'm pretty sure there's a way to work around the police jury and get the tax on the ballot. You should be able to get the citizens to sign a petition. I think if you get enough signatures, they have to put it on the ballot. Talk to Gerald Breaux. He knows just about everything about this town.” Sal knew the answer was lame. Ever since he'd heard about what had happened at the police jury meeting, he'd been trying to think of a way to get the library system the money it needed. He had an idea, but he'd need help to make it work. Even then, it might not be enough. Gunderson was too powerful. If she didn't want something to happen, generally it didn't.

“Breaux was at the meeting,” Louise said.

“Oh, of course. Did you ask him what to do?”

“No, we left right after the vote and I haven't talked to him since. I just bought this house, and I really don't want to leave now. I was an idiot. I didn't know our salaries were dependent on this grant. I guess Sylvia and I were so busy trying to make the library better that we didn't think about it.”

Sal set down his empty glass on the end table. He'd drunk the wine too fast without noticing. “This fight is not over. You, Sylvia, and Hope are smarter than Mr. Foley and Mrs. Gunderson. I've lived here most of my life and I can tell you that the people will vote for this. Y'all just need to get it on the ballot.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

“I have to get home. The dogs will be looking to be fed, and I have some new heirloom strawberries I need to check on.” He stood up.

“Okay,” Louise said. She stepped toward him and then hesitated.

Sal took both her hands in his, leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Louise pulled him closer and looped her arms around his neck. He put his arms around her waist and brought his lips to hers again. Holding her felt as good as he'd dreamed it would.