Part of Me (15 page)

The youth section was empty of people except for the homeless man with Elvis sideburns, looking at the new YA book section. Then Kyle noticed the red-headed kid leaning over Ms. Carol's desk.

Kyle hid behind one of the bookshelves, peering through the space above the books. His heart pounded. Muffled laughter came from behind the closed Story Time room door. Kyle thought he should probably be there, too, but he'd return for the bow at the end. Besides he was about to solve the mystery of the missing Harrys.

When the boy inched over, Kyle noticed the Harry Potter book on the desk. He couldn't tell which one, but he could swear the kid was eyeing it. Suddenly a woman said, “Cody?”

The boy jumped.

“You were supposed to check in with me downstairs. Some of the newspapers hadn't arrived. Let's go home for lunch and then we can come back.”

“Do I have to come back?” the kid asked.

“Yes, I'm not leaving you home by yourself. And I have to finish reading the want ads. You can read a book while I'm downstairs.”

The boy groaned.

“Come on, let's go.”

Kyle started to wonder if the red-headed kid was the wrong suspect. Maybe he was like Kyle and didn't enjoy reading. Or maybe he was pretending that he didn't like to read, and he really wanted to snatch that Harry Potter book. His mom had returned before he had a chance to steal it.

Kyle started to leave his hiding place when he noticed the homeless man move toward Ms. Carol's desk. Holding his breath, Kyle watched him.

The man dug inside his tattered bag and pulled out a Harry Potter book. He placed
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
on the desk. Then he slipped
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
inside his bag, turned, and walked away. He didn't walk fast. He sauntered, stopping to look at the rotating paperback display. A moment later, he headed downstairs.

Kyle hurried to the elevator and pushed the button. He was surprised when it opened immediately. After stepping inside, he pushed the first-floor button. His heart pounded against his chest.
Thr-ump, thr-ump, thr-ump.
The door opened. He rushed out, running smack into the homeless man. Kyle gasped, but the man merely muttered “Excuse me” and kept moving. He passed the reference desk and the periodical section.

It took Kyle a moment to catch his breath. From the periodical area, he watched the man walk to a back corner and sit at a table. The man put his bag in front of him, hiding the book before he began to read.

Kyle wished he could stay and watch him to see what would happen next, but he knew Mr. Patrick would be wondering about his whereabouts. He'd forgotten to return to take his bow at the end of the skit. He'd forgotten everything because of a book.

Finally, he had to leave. His sister was the type to overreact. She might call the police, or worse, make an announcement over the loudspeaker. The only time the library did that was for hurricane warnings. Besides, the man was so engrossed in the story, he'd surely be at the same place when Kyle returned after a while. Kyle took the stairs two at a time, and when he reached the top, Mr. Patrick was there.

“Hey, where were you? You missed the standing ovation.”

For some reason, Kyle didn't tell Mr. Patrick about the man. He just shrugged. “Sorry.” Then he quickly added, “We got a standing ovation?”

“Yep,” Mr. Patrick said. “All the kids wanted to know where you were. We told them you were in jail.”

Emma smiled at him and almost startled Kyle. It was a kind of smile Kyle hadn't seen from her in a long time—an I'm-not-embarrassed-that-I'm-related-to-you smile.

“You were great,” she said. “How about lunch? We could go to The Dry Dock Café. I'll even treat.”

Kyle's stomach was grumbling, but he wanted to watch the man until the next skit. “Um, I'm not so hungry.” Kyle had never said those words in his entire life.

Emma's forehead wrinkled. “Suit yourself.” Then she left with Carmel, one of the library aides.

Kyle returned to his watch post in the periodical section, but his stomach sank when he realized the man was gone. He circled the first floor so many times that one of the research librarians frowned and started watching him with a suspicious glare. Finally, Kyle gave up and returned to the children's area.

The only thing that made him feel better was
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,
the one the homeless man returned. Kyle grabbed it off the desk. “Ms. Carol, could you hold on to this? I'm going to check it out at the end of the day.”

“Sure.” She took the book from him. “Wait a minute. Where did this come from?”

“Your desk.”

“This is the one that went missing the other day. Strange.”

She looked frantically around and underneath her desk, again. “And now the third one is missing. The oddest things happen in this library. Just the other day someone returned a book. They'd been using a piece of bacon for a bookmark.” Shaking her head, she started to put the book in her desk drawer. “Oh, Kyle, I'm sorry, but I forgot there are three other people on the waiting list for that book.”

Kyle nodded, disappointed.

Ms. Carol leaned over her desk and lowered her voice. “Do you think you could finish it by Friday?”

“You bet!” Kyle sounded more excited than he'd meant to.

She winked. “It'll be right here.”

Kyle wandered into the break room and ate lunch from the vending machines. It wasn't an oyster po'-boy, but in a fix two Snickers bars and a Coke could hit the spot. Then he moseyed downstairs, wishing the man would return.

The case was solved. The man wasn't a thief. Emma had recently told Kyle that the homeless couldn't check out books because people had to have an address to get a library card.

Now Kyle was just curious about him. It would be cool to strike up a conversation with the man about Harry, like he and JJ did in the chat room when they shared info on Hendrix or Zeppelin. He scoped the back section of the library. The man wasn't there.

Kyle walked over to where the man had sat and settled into his chair. He tried to see the world from the man's eyes. He surveyed the shelves. A library must be a candy store to someone who loves to read. His gaze settled on a familiar book spine on the fourth shelf. Most people would have to use a stool to reach that shelf, but Kyle wouldn't. Sometimes being the tallest kid in middle school came in handy.

He got up and went over to the Harry Potter book that was between
The History of Philosophy
and
Questions in Philosophy.
He walked away, leaving the book on the shelf. Even though they didn't get to talk, Kyle thought of how he'd probably be reading about Harry tonight, but the man with Elvis sideburns couldn't because the library would be closed.

Kyle reached the stairs as the Sunshine Day Care Center's bus drove up in front of the library—
Saving Sweetness'
s next audience. He hoped they booed him like the morning kids.

On the second floor, Mr. Patrick looked up from behind his desk. “There you are. You're quite the mystery man, Kyle. You show up just in time, just like those missing Harry Potter books.”

Kyle grinned. He looked over to Ms. Carol, who was helping a lady with a toddler find a book. Cody, the red-headed kid, was back, hovering over a boy searching the Internet.

“Excuse me, Mr. Patrick,” Kyle said. “I'll be right back.”

Mr. Patrick peered over his glasses. “You aren't going to do another disappearing act, are you? The kids will be seated any second now.”

Kyle could hear them already climbing the stairs. “I promise. This will only take a couple of minutes.”

He went to the R section and grabbed the only remaining
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
off the shelf. He walked over to Cody, who was still watching the other boy at the computer.

“Hey,” Kyle said.

“Hi,” Cody murmured.

“Do you like to read?”

The boy shrugged.

“Ever read about Harry?” Kyle asked, showing Cody the book.

“No. I've seen the movie, though.”

“Oh, the book is much better. Let me give you a short book talk.”

Cody's mother came up just as Kyle finished his spiel. “I'm finished,” she said. “Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah.”

Kyle held out the book. “Don't forget this.”

“You picked out a book?” Cody's mother sounded pleased.

The boy looked reluctant, but took the book from Kyle anyway.
Just wait,
Kyle thought. He watched the boy walk away with his mom, the book tucked under his arm. Kyle felt like his chest was going to burst.

When he turned, he discovered Mr. Patrick was already wearing the white cowboy hat. He held out the black one to Kyle. “Ready to play the bad guy?”

Kyle accepted the hat and placed it in on his head. “Ready.”

Rose

Been Down That Road

(2004)

T
HE
G
LENMORA BRANCH
of the Rapides Parish Library had never looked so festive. The room was small, but the staff managed to squeeze a long table between two rows of bookshelves. They covered it with a white linen tablecloth and, in the center, set a cookie platter next to a punch bowl filled with pink lemonade and a floating fruit ice ring. Rose's books were stacked at both ends with the top one displaying
Books on the Bayous.
It showed a photograph of a young Rose, standing near the bookmobile she'd driven years ago.

Twenty minutes remained before the afternoon reception started. The librarian Hilda Monroe and her aides were putting out a few folding chairs. Rose stood in front of the table, trying to take it all in. She wore a yellow dress, instead of the drab gray suit she'd almost chosen, because Luther had always said she looked like walking sunshine whenever she'd worn the color. If only Luther could be here today, thought Rose, then the day would be perfect.

Rose had not done everything she'd wanted to in life. She'd not gone to college, not even finished high school. Instead she'd worked to help support her family, married young, raised three children. Now at seventy-nine years old, she'd finally realized a dream come true. She'd become a writer. The book wasn't any of the stories she'd written in the Indian Chief pads or spiral notebooks. This tale told about her days as a young bookmobile driver in the bayou communities of Houma.

The book would never have happened if it wasn't for the article she submitted to
Sweet Memories
magazine. Who would have thought the story Rose wrote on a whim would find its way to the hands of a New York editor? And had the grandmother of that young editor not shared the article with her granddaughter, Rose's book would never have existed.

The editor's letter arrived on a warm autumn morning. Rose had just finished hanging sheets on the clothesline. She owned a dryer but loved the smell of bedding that had spent the day in fresh air. Later she walked to the mailbox, returned to the house, and settled into her chair with a cup of coffee. Thumbing through the envelopes, she felt disappointed not to receive a letter from any of her family. Except for Annabeth, no one wrote letters anymore. Everyone e-mailed, whatever the heck that was. Merle Henry told her she needed a computer so they could keep in touch. “Hogwash!” she'd said.

That morning, she'd almost set the New York letter aside, mistaking it for junk mail. But she gave the envelope another look because it was addressed to Rose McGee Harp. No one had attached her name to McGee in decades. She shook her head, trying to erase the bitter feeling that surfaced every time she thought of how her father had abandoned them and how her mother had to work for years at the Boudreaux Oyster Company just to make ends meet. The only good thing that had come from her papa leaving was finally meeting her grandfather. Not long after they moved to Houma, Antoine's heart softened toward them all. When she married Luther, she told her grandfather the truth about her age. A look of relief washed over him, but it had quickly changed to horror. “You only sixteen and you marry dis man? You just a baby!”

Rose slid the letter opener under the envelope's edge and took out the page.

Dear Mrs. Harp,

My grandmother sent me a copy of your article that appeared in
Sweet Memories
magazine. I was moved by your story about your days as a young bookmobile driver in 1940. Do you have more stories about this time in your life? If you do, I would like you to consider writing a book on your experiences. You have a lovely spare voice that would appeal to readers. And you capture a time and a place that many people find fascinating. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Amelia Peters

Rose sat there stunned, not moving an inch. Then she tried to grab the phone so quick she missed her aim, knocking it to the floor. After picking it up, she dialed the first call she'd ever made to New York City. Initially, Amelia seemed like she was too busy to talk until she'd figured out that the caller was the woman to whom she'd sent a letter.

“Oh, Mrs. Harp. How nice to hear from you.”

“You really want me to write a book?”

“I'd love for you to try.”

“Mercy,” Rose whispered under her breath.

“Pardon?”

“How much would this cost me?” Rose asked. Her house was paid for, but she was living on Social Security and a few CDs.

“Mrs. Harp, you don't pay us. We pay you.”

“Mercy,” said Rose.

*   *   *

After the phone call, Rose dug out the leather journal she'd kept in Houma and began to write. When she completed the first draft, she cashed in a CD and bought a computer. She told no one about the book, afraid that the deal might fall through. Each morning she sat at the kitchen table and wrote about the people of Bayou du Large, Pointe-Aux-Chenes, and the other bayou communities. The spurt of energy she felt upon waking surprised her. Writing a book was better than a shot of cortisone. She could hardly feel those old aches and pains. A few months later she sent in her manuscript, thinking she'd said all she had to say about those days.