Chapter Twenty-Two
Elliott’s students were not happy. They’d returned from Thanksgiving break to the realization that the semester was almost over, and now they were emailing with tales of woe, pleading for due-date extensions or extra credit, begging him to give them Incompletes or a No Credit instead of an F. He tried to be patient with them, he truly did, but his responses tended toward terse. For once, he was grateful not to face them in person. If they’d been standing in front of him, he would have yelled.
An entire week passed. He ate all the leftovers Ladd and Anna had brought, and he never once saw Simon. Oh, he was tempted. Sometimes he jogged by Simon’s house and considered ringing the doorbell on the pretext that Ishtar missed him. Which she did; she was a little mopey actually. Elliott kept running on by.
Miss you, Elliott texted to Simon on Tuesday, followed immediately by But I’m not stalking you.
Simon replied right away. Miss you too. A lot. Still thinking though.
Got it. Are you okay?
Simon answered with a thumbs-up emoji.
On Thursday night, Simon texted first. Drove to Columbia today. Don’t know why. No fun without you.
That almost made Elliott cry, which was really dumb. He texted back with Simon’s final sentence: No fun without you. That was true.
After that, they sent messages to each other a few times a day. Nothing extensive or earthshaking, just reminders of where their hearts were. Elliott sent a few photos of Ishtar. It was all slightly ridiculous since they were only a couple of blocks apart, but sometimes a couple of blocks might as well be a million miles.
Other than that? Elliott ran a lot, even though the weather was cold and sometimes drippy enough that Ishtar refused to go with him. He didn’t buy more books.
Business was brisk at the little library. Melanie came by almost every day. He’d catch sight of her in a bright-red jacket as she selected new books and replaced them with some of her own. She always waved at him. Other people came too, ten or twelve every day. They represented a wide range of ages, but what struck Elliott was that every one of them smiled as they walked away with fresh titles clutched under their coats to keep them dry.
On Friday, Elliott was restocking the library when the mail truck pulled up to the community mailbox across the street. Elliott ambled over while the mail carrier was unlocking the big door that provided access to the entire block’s incoming mail. “Hi,” said Elliott, feeling awkward.
Apparently the mail carrier had no such reservations; his thin face lit up in a broad grin. “Oh, hey! I’m glad I finally get to see you. I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I love your library idea.”
“Well, it really wasn’t my idea.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a couple others around town. They’re great. Now I know why you need all those Amazon deliveries!”
Elliott laughed politely. He didn’t mind that the guy knew of his book addiction, but he wasn’t used to being enthused at so cheerfully. “I enjoy keeping it up.”
“Hey, would you mind if I borrow a book now and then? I know I don’t live here, but—”
“Help yourself.”
The mail carrier smiled even wider and waved a handful of envelopes and sales circulars. “Thanks! I’ll return ’em, of course.”
“No worries. I have plenty.” This time, Elliott’s smile felt less forced. He was genuinely pleased to know his library’s use could expand outside his little circle of neighbors.
“Thanks. Hang on. I’ve got stuff for you.”
While Elliott waited for him to sort the mail, Mike Burgess shot out of his house and marched over at full speed. He didn’t bother greeting either Elliott or the mail carrier. “Last week somebody else’s mail was in my box!”
Judging from the mail carrier’s long-suffering expression, this wasn’t the first time he’d heard this complaint. “I’m really sorry to hear that, sir. We try very hard to deliver accurately, but sometimes—”
“It’s your job! You guys get paid far too much to stroll around doing a job a trained chimpanzee could get right. Then you stand around lollygagging all day.” Burgess gestured angrily at Elliott.
“Lollygagging?” Elliott asked. Who wrote Burgess’s script?
While Burgess glared, the mail carrier seemed unperturbed. “I was just complimenting Mr. Thompson on his library, that’s all.”
“That!” Burgess spat. “It’s illegal!”
“What the hell’s illegal about it?” demanded Elliott. He didn’t add that his maybe-boyfriend, a former cop, was an enthusiastic supporter of the library.
“You’re trumpeting your agenda where children can access it.” Burgess said agenda as if it were a dirty word.
“My agenda is to get people to read, so yeah. I think that’s good for kids.”
“I mean your other agenda! Which is obscene.”
“I think, Mike, you should look up the proper definition of obscene. And if you don’t like my books, don’t read them. Simple as that.”
Although he didn’t add to the discussion, the mail carrier looked as if he were enjoying it. He’d angled his body closer to Elliott, perhaps to clarify his loyalty.
Burgess growled. “That filth shouldn’t be where children can see it.”
“It’s not filth, and I think I’ll let the kids and parents decide for themselves what’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate!” Burgess’s face had turned red. “You people come in and you act like you deserve special rights, and you wave your politics in everyone’s faces all the time. It’s disgusting!”
“‘You people’? What people are those, Mike? And exactly what special rights do you think I’m demanding?”
Burgess pointed at Elliott’s house. “That! Those books and that sign.”
“So the First Amendment is a special right?”
Burgess sputtered, but before he managed an answer, the mail carrier addressed him. “I think a person’s choice of reading material is his own business.” He raised his eyebrows and cast a significant look at Burgess, whose face flushed even more.
“Just . . . do your job!” Burgess shouted. He turned on his heel, marched back to his house, and slammed the door as he went inside.
“He orders some interesting magazines?” Elliott asked.
The mail carrier’s smile was back. “I can’t divulge. But . . . yes.”
“Ew. I don’t even want to know.”
They chatted for another minute or two while the mail carrier finished sorting. Then he handed a few items to Elliott. “Guess I oughtta quit my lollygagging. Have a good weekend!”
Elliott smiled. “You too. And help yourself to the books.”
He was still smiling as he crossed the street and walked up his driveway, shuffling through his mail as he went. But when he got to the final envelope, his stomach clenched. The return address was a prison in Washington.