Julia's Chocolates (15 page)

I was hired.

On my first day of work at the Monroe City Library I was told by the assistant librarian, Roxy Bell, that the gal before me had quit because she hated the woman I would be working for. So had the woman before her, and the woman before her, and that particular woman apparently had three kids and no husband. “She told me she thought she was going to kill Ms. Cutter with the hatchet her ex-husband had left behind, and she couldn’t see going to jail when her kids were so young,” Roxy Bell told me, her white hair curling around the sweetest face I have ever seen. “I stay because when Ms. Cutter comes around, I just turn down my hearing aid and nod pleasantly at whatever she says to me, when she deigns to speak to me at all, which isn’t often, and I watch her mouth open and shut and I keep nodding, and if she reports me to the board I don’t care because my aunt and my sister’s best friend are on the board, and I know I’ll have a job here till the day I croak over the encyclopedias, but you need to watch out for her, dear, she’s like a viper, and she doesn’t like children, and she likes to keep it dark in here.”

Roxy Bell obviously did not like periods in her sentences.

I looked around the Monroe City Library. It was a small building, in the center of the town, and had about as much warmth as a morgue. Rows of books ran the length of the library, with tables in between. Beige, dying curtains were down over all the closed windows, and the lights were dimmed. The walls were dingy white. Stuffy air filled the room like wet dust. The children’s area was tiny. There were no beanbags or fun posters or paintings that might amuse children. It was simply a corner of the library—a dark corner, I might add.

Ms. Cutter and I did not get off to a good start my first day. “You’re two minutes late,” she said to me as I walked into the library.

Immediately, I felt like a little girl. A fat, clumsy, awkward, tardy little girl. Who was late. Two minutes so. I started babbling. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Cutter, I couldn’t find a parking space, and I know you want us to park away from the library so the patrons can have those spaces, and I ended up parking at the far end of the road, then took a wrong turn walking here, and I’m very sorry…” Looked like I had lost my periods, too.

“Stop.” Ms. Cutter stood to her full height of six foot one inches tall. Six foot three inches in her heels. She held up one hand about a foot from my face. She had short, butch hair, a long nose, and the coldest eyes I have ever seen.

“Please, Ms. Bennett, I have no time for excuses. I’m quite busy. Your job will be to shelve books, as we discussed. When we’re busy, you can run the checkout counter with me. Make sure you are as quiet as possible. Your shoes look like they will be too noisy. Wear rubber soles. Do not wear clothes that make noise. No low-cut shirts or tight pants allowed. Do not let your boyfriends come and visit you here at the library. Leave your personal problems at home, I am not your mother or your counselor. Do not—Is something funny, Ms. Bennett?”

Oh yes. It was. When Ms. Cutter helpfully reminded me that she wasn’t my mother I instantly pictured Ms. Cutter in one of my mother’s more sleazy red outfits that shoved her boobs up nearly to her chin and exposed most of her thighs.

Now, that picture in my head was funny.

“No, there’s nothing funny. Not funny at all.”

“Good.” She crossed her gangly arms and stared down her long beak at me. I was transported to childhood. “Get to work, then.”

Ms. Cutter had told me in the interview that she did not believe that children should spend long amounts of time in a library, so she didn’t think the space should be overly large. “Children are loud and messy in this town. Totally disrespectful.”

Roxy Bell told me Ms. Cutter had initially run the Story Hour and scared away all of the children by reading the classics to them, which bored them silly.

There were not many children at Story Hour.

In fact, the first day I was there, there was only one child, a boy named Shawn Coleman. Shawn told me he was there because his sister was sick and he needed a book to read to her.

No, his mother wasn’t home. She hadn’t been home for a couple of days, he told me.

Unwashed blond hair stuck out around his pale face, his clothes too small on a frail frame. Bare toes peeped out of his shoes, and a battered backpack hung from his shoulders. A muttered “hello” is about all I got out of him. I smiled. He did not smile back. I held out my hand to take him to the children’s area. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. I asked him if he liked books. “Carrie Lynn does,” he said.

So I helped Shawn pick out a few books, then I offered to read to him. He hesitated at first because his sister was sick and he wanted to get back to her. “But she went to sleep right before I left, so we could read a few.” He looked up at me, his eyes a murky green. “If you want to. If you don’t have anything else to do.”

I assured him I had nothing else to do. And, besides, this was Story Hour, wasn’t it? So, Shawn and I read books. He was nine years old and could hardly read, so I read book after book to him. At the end I helped him to read a book. I chose a very easy one to help him gain some self-confidence, but he struggled through it. I was saddened by how poorly he read.

After exactly an hour had passed, Ms. Cutter returned, her back ramrod-straight. I wondered how it would feel to have a pole shoved up your rear all day long. “Story Time is now over, Shawn. Run along.” Her glare was cold enough to freeze every hair in my nostrils, and Shawn’s face got a pinched, worried look to it, just like the one he’d had when he walked in. “Go on home now, Shawn. Ms. Bennett is very busy. Julia, I’ll expect those books to be properly shelved, and then you may start on the stack near my desk.”

“I had a great time reading with you today, Shawn,” I told him, handing him a stack of books after I’d helped him with his backpack. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll read more books, practice your reading. Your teacher will be so happy with how much you’ve improved over the summer.”

Ms. Cutter glared at me, clasping her hands in front of her. “Really, Julia. Let’s not be false with our young people. Reading is a serious endeavor. Shawn, you must remember that a library is a serious place. Please show your respect by wearing clean clothes and brushing your hair before entering.”

My mouth fell open.

Ms. Cutter took the books from Shawn. “You do not have a library card, Shawn, so you can’t check out books. Your mother must sign for a card for you.”

Shawn opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, looked at the floor.

“As your mother is never here, being so busy in
other places
, you must leave all the books here. Come along, now. Out you go.”

Shocked into silence, I watched as Ms. Cutter led Shawn away, careful to keep her distance. She held out a hand, indicating that he was to precede her. Shawn shuffled out, his head still down.

I had to sit down in a chair for a moment. Had that really happened? Had she really been that bitchy? After a few moments, I stood and shelved the books Shawn and I had read, furious with Ms. Cutter for making Shawn feel so unwelcome, so unworthy.

Within minutes The Vulture was back, her long beak of a nose protruding from her face like a sausage. “Ms. Bennett.” She had a sneer plastered over her face. She reminded me of the mother-in-law I almost had, her hands on her bony hips. “I know you’re inexperienced and have a lot to learn, but, please, let’s not cater to the riffraff of this town. We can’t have this area turned into a little day care for the children of—how shall I say it?—the less desirable families.”

I was stunned again. The town actually had someone like this in charge of the library? “I thought libraries were for everyone,” I said. “Not just desirable families.”

She huffed and puffed. “We have a certain atmosphere we’re trying to promote here, one you’re probably not familiar with. Our library is important to us out here in Monroe, very important, and people don’t like to be distracted by problem children when they’re here.”

I glanced around the library. There were two people there. One looked to be about eighty. He was hunched over an encyclopedia. Roxy Bell had told me he came every day and read through the encyclopedias. He had read from A to Z. Twice. The other was a woman with graying hair. She had come in, chosen three books, and was now checking her books out.

“Shawn wasn’t a problem child at all, Ms. Cutter. He was very quiet, he listened to the stories well, and it
is
Story Hour.”

“Stop!” Ms. Cutter held up her hand again in front of my face again. I stared at the backs of those wrinkled fingers. “You will not argue with me. I have been in charge of this library for twenty years. The board has given me their trust to do what’s right, and this is what I believe is right. The discussion is closed. I will see you at the front desk immediately so you can begin shelving the books.”

She turned on her heel and left. My heart ached for Shawn. I went to the front desk and, without looking at Ms. Cutter, shelved all the books. Roxy Bell and I chatted a little bit until The Vulture informed us that there was plenty of time we could talk when we weren’t working on the taxpayer’s dollar.

I arrived the next day, hoping that Shawn would come back, and he did.

Ms. Cutter’s face turned a lovely shade of tomato red, but she said nothing when I greeted Shawn, a big smile on my face. He had brought his sister, Carrie Lynn. Carrie Lynn was very small, with hair the same color as Shawn’s and badly matted. She had enormous blue eyes and hollows in her cheeks. She looked exhausted and scared and had this old look to her eyes that told me she’d seen way too much of life already. I saw her clinging to Shawn’s hand with both of hers. Over her left arm was a dirty blanket.

“This is Carrie Lynn. She’s six years old. She doesn’t really like to talk,” Shawn told me, shifting his backpack. “She’s shy around people.”

Carrie Lynn glanced at me, then down at the floor.

“But she’s real good, Miss Bennett. She likes books, too. We have one at home about Cinderella, and she looks at it every day. Right, Carrie Lynn?”

Carrie Lynn nodded, then tried to duck behind her brother. I noticed that her clothes were as dirty as her brother’s, her shoes also torn.

“I am so happy to meet you, Carrie Lynn,” I said, getting down on my knees to be at eye level with her. I wanted to hug both kids. What kind of parents would let their children sink to this level? Well, actually, I knew.

Parents like my mother.

I remembered wearing shoes with holes. I remembered how the other kids had made fun of my dirty clothes. I remembered having hair that was so matted I couldn’t brush it. I remembered having a dirty blanket just like Carrie Lynn’s. And I remembered escaping to the library in town in every single place we lived. I spent hours in the library from the time I was about four years old when we lived a block from it.

The first day I walked in, the librarian asked me where my mother was. I told her I didn’t know. She called the police, my mother showed up, told the librarian I could come to the library any damn time I wanted and if she called the police again she would be damn sorry. Then my mother whacked me across the face for causing trouble and yanked me out. I smelled alcohol on her breath.

The librarian always welcomed me after that. I have never forgotten Mrs. Zeebak’s kindness, or the kindness of the librarians in my life that followed her.

“So you like books, Carrie Lynn?”

She nodded.

“What kind of books do you like?”

She glanced at her brother, tried to hide behind him again.

“She likes the book on Cinderella. She would probably also like books on animals.”

“Animals?” I smiled at her. “Those are my favorite books! Of course, I’m a big fan of Cinderella, too. Shall we sit together and read both types? And what do you want to read today, Shawn?”

“Whatever Carrie Lynn wants to read is good with me because I had time to read with you yesterday.”

My throat tightened. Shawn put an arm on Carrie Lynn’s tiny, fragile shoulder.

So we read and read and read. A couple books on princesses and a couple on animals. Then I pulled out an easy-to-read book, and we worked on their reading skills. Carrie Lynn had fewer skills than Shawn, but they were pretty close.

When Hatchet Face arrived, pointing at her watch, her disdain oozing out of her skinny body, I was ready for her. I put the books away, took the children’s hands, and kept up a steady stream of conversation as I walked them to the door. I told them to come back the next day.

Shawn said, “Thank you, Miss Bennett.”

Carrie Lynn peeped up at me through a tangle of blond hair. I thought I might have seen a small smile.

Then they were gone, back to the apartment they said they lived in next to the library. Gone to parents, or a parent, who apparently didn’t seem to care that a son’s shoes had holes large enough for loneliness to seep in and a daughter who pulled her filthy blanket over her head to hide because she preferred to be invisible. Both children had the vacant, desperate, crushed looks of those who were never hugged and had truckloads of secrets to hide. How did I guess that? Because that was me. I was Carrie Lynn and Shawn.

I went home that day, helped around the farm, made tostados for Aunt Lydia and me, and then, because I was saddened by Shawn and Carrie Lynn, I made chocolate desserts for hours. Chocolate Amaretto Peaches, Pears in Chocolate Fudge Blankets, and Chocolate Red Currant Torte.