CHAPTER TWO
I enter the gray cement building, immediately impressed by its massive interior. From the outside, it looks like your standard, boring, underfunded library, but I quickly see it is not.
There are three floors, two of which are above me and open in the center, looking down upon the first floor. There’s a reading area for children with colorful furniture and a giant plastic palm tree—Annoyingly cute. There’s a section of music and listening stations—Why? Everyone has a damned smart phone these days, yes? I even see they have a computer lab and a lounging space in the middle with red couches—Trying to make the library hip, are we? Try again. The only thing here that impresses me is the collection of books. It’s twice as large as any library I’ve seen.
“May I help you?” says a voice so soft that I’m certain it’s come from a mouse beneath the table to my side.
I turn and am surprised to find a set of inquisitive brown eyes staring up at me. Her dirty blonde hair is in a lopsided bun that’s more of a ponytail gone wrong, and her wrinkled white blouse is equally uneven, as it appears she’s paired the top button with the second-to-the-top hole. Her brown sweater is moth-eaten, and thick black glasses hang around her neck on one of those beaded necklaces often used by the elderly.
I suddenly notice a red mark on her forehead. It’s Frogger! I realize. And I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for the poor thing. She can’t be a day over twenty-nine, yet she dresses like a cliché of the crotchety old librarian, almost like a child might for Halloween. Her oval face with delicate features and cupid bow lips is not unattractive by any means, so my curiosity is instantly piqued. Why would a woman intentionally go out in public looking like this?
I smile and remind myself to be a gentleman. And a gentleman always makes a woman feel special no matter her appearance.
“Hi. Good morning…” I glance at her scuffed plastic name tag. “Miriam. That’s a lovely name—”
“Weren’t you just in line at the coffee shop down the street?” she asks, in her tiny little voice.
I didn’t realize she had noticed me. “Yes, how is your forehead?”
Seeming self-conscious, her small hand moves to the lump and covers it. “You can’t have that in here, you know,” she says in her pint-sized voice and glances over at the big red sign on the wall that reads No food or beverages.
I gaze at the cup of warm beloved liquid in my hand and debate guzzling it down or throwing it out. “I’ll just finish it outside.” I’m about to wish her a nice day, but she quickly cuts me off.
“Okay. There’s still time, so just holler when you’re ready.”
“Ready for…?”
“Oh. With the suit, I thought you were here for the assistant librarian position.”
I’m a suit man. Always have been. Always will be. And given my very youthful appearance—I look about twenty, my age when I turned—I can see why she’d make that mistake.
She continues, “Interviews start in ten minutes, though the last time I posted it, only two people showed up.” She wiggles her pink lips from side to side. “And then they never called back for our follow-up.”
“My apologies, but I am not…” I notice a look of instant disappointment in her wide brown eyes. Something tells me that this library is her life, and for some reason she now feels personally rejected by my reply. Normally, I wouldn’t care—I’m far too old for all that sentimental garbage, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, I feel shockingly sympathetic, and it’s enough to intrigue me.
Why her?
“Yes. Of course I’m here to interview. I’m sorry I’ve been so rude,” I say with a dip of my head. “I wouldn’t want to make you wait since you’re ready now.”
Her eyes light up, and I cannot lie. A sense of satisfaction wells in my cold stomach, which only adds more intrigue.
“Right this way,” she says.
I carefully set my treasured coffee in the trash can near the door and bid it adieu. We shall meet again. No, I do not plan to pick it out, but I do promise myself another as soon as this “interview” is over.
I shake my head at myself and follow Miriam between two long rows of waist-high shelves. I can’t help looking at her small body and how she hides it under layers of bulky, unflattering clothes. Does she not have a mother or sister or female friends to teach her to shop for clothing in her size?
Then I notice her odd step. She’s walking on the balls of her slippered feet, quiet as a mouse. I suppose we are in a library.
I shrug, feeling thoroughly amused by her quirkiness.
She turns the corner and clips the wheel of a book cart in the middle of the aisle with her foot, sending her into an awkward stumble. I watch in slow motion as she involuntarily reaches for the cart to prevent from falling and the entire thing tips over with a crash. Books everywhere.
Librarian down. Librarian down! I rush to her aid.
“Are you alright?” I grab her elbow and get her to her feet.
“Yes. Fine. I shouldn’t have left that there.” She dusts off her skirt. “I’m just so distracted lately.”
Suddenly, a book falls from the tall shelf at our side and hurtles toward her head. Instinctively, I reach out and snatch it from the air.
“Wow. Fast reflexes,” she says, batting her big eyes with appreciation.
This woman is a danger magnet. I can practically feel it in the air, gravitating toward her.
I wonder if that is why I came in here. I am very dangerous.
She goes to right the cart, but I step around her and take over.
“Allow me.” I have no desire to watch her lose an arm or eyeball while I’m here.
With the books back on the cart, she thanks me and we continue on our way toward a set of double doors that lead down a hallway with one sad flickering lightbulb. A small kitchenette is off to one side and we pass a supply room.
“My office is right here.” She pushes on the last door and invites me into a small windowless room. Books are piled everywhere—desk, floor, on top of filing cabinets.
“It’s so…” I can’t think of anything pleasant to say, so I lie, “cheerful.”
She doesn’t reply and instead points to an empty chair. She takes her own seat behind her desk and pushes aside a stack of books to better see me. Two books on the top go tumbling to the floor, and dust flitters into the air.
“I’ll get that,” I say, holding in a sneeze. I cannot imagine why no one wants to work here, picking books up off the floor all day is delightful.
I carefully place the books on the edge of her desk on the only clean spot.
“Thank you,” she says and holds out her hand expectantly. “Why don’t you start by telling me where you’re going to school?”
I look at her small fingers, wondering what she wants from me. “Are we supposed to shake?”
She makes a strange little laugh that’s almost a snort. “Fast reflexes and a sense of humor. Can’t wait to see what else you have to offer.”
I realize she’s expecting a résumé. “Oh, I’m afraid I had a terrible issue with my printer this morning; however, I can give you a complete verbal rundown and email you a copy this afternoon.” I won’t, of course, because I obviously don’t want the job. I’m killing time, and she’s my entertainment.
“That’s all right,” she says sweetly, watching me with her keen eyes. “Why don’t you start with your library experience?”
None. Absolutely none. I have a passion for books, but public libraries are for common people and smell funny. Plus, I’m a vampire, and we don’t particularly enjoy sharing. I have my own fine collection of books back home in Cincinnati.
I shrug, trying to act more my age. “Libraries are a good place to work quietly.” When you get the call that your best friend has died and you’re attempting not to tear someone’s head off over it.
“All right. No librarian experience.” She frowns and makes a note somewhere on the other side of the clutter, so I can’t see what she’s written. “What are you majoring in? Wait. You have graduated from high school, yes?”
Me? High school student? Hardly. I try not to laugh, but her comment reminds me that I have to stop speaking like a four-hundred-year-old, especially since she thinks I’m about eighteen. I will have to inject more contractions and slang into my speech. Ummms and uhhhs are also good.
“Yeah, I graduated.”
“Excellent. And what are you majoring in?” she asks.
“I, uhh…am not in school right now, but I’m considering English lit. Maybe Cambridge—uhhh…if I can get in.” I actually have a master’s degree from Cambridge, where I taught for a short while in the 1700s.
“Really? I went there,” she says enthusiastically.
“What year did you graduate?” I ask.
She swipes her hand through the air. “Oh, that was years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. But I have a few friends on the staff and I love helping young people, so when you’re ready for a recommendation, you just say the word.”
It dawns on me that this woman sees herself as my elder, and me as a child. It’s kind of adorable, really. I also like that she has a generous heart. She hardly knows me, yet she’s offered to assist in my education.
“That’s cool. Thanks, Miriam.” I hate using that word. Cool. Sounds so ridiculous to give a compliment by commenting on something’s temperature. “So tell me about you? How long have you worked here?”
I watch her alabaster cheeks turn a rosy pink, and her wide eyes light up with my question. I imagine it’s because no one ever thinks to ask her anything other than the location of a particular book.
“Well,” she says, “after I completed my degree in English, I came back home and got my master of library sciences at ASU. I’ve pretty much worked here ever since. No. Wait.” She shakes her finger in the air. “I worked here part-time during summers in high school.” She smiles. “Maybe someday you’ll get through school and work here full-time, too.”
I can’t imagine a more hellish job. Books are for owning and reading, not sorting day after day after day. On the shelf. Off the shelf. On the shelf. Off the shelf. I’d sooner go sunbathing.
Nevertheless, I like her and I like her enthusiasm. In a small way, I might even feel a bit jealous. It’s been eons since I felt true passion for anything. Anger, need, affection—yes. Passion—no.
My thoughts lead back to Clive. He had passion for his work. He loved finding the truth and helping people put bad situations behind them. He saw it as his contribution to the modern world. Plus, he had a knack for it. I never did. Perhaps because I never cared like he does.
Did. Clive did care, I correct myself and feel my stomach knot with acid.
“Hey, are you all right?” Miriam asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Fine. I, uhhh…I got some bad news over the weekend. A friend passed away.”
“Oh. No wonder you were in such a bad mood earlier. I’m very sorry.”
“Me too,” I say. “Actually, I need to go. I have to…see his mom.” Really, I’ve just concluded that I cannot wait until one o’clock. I don’t care if it offends the local society and their ridiculous bureaucrats. I came for answers. I came for Clive. I did not come to this hellhole of sunshine to sit in a library and wait.
Miriam stands. “I completely understand.” She digs into her desk drawer and hands me a card. “My email address is there, and if you think of any questions, just call.”
“Thank you.” I take the card and slide it into my coat pocket.
She holds out her hand. “This time you can shake it.” Her cupid bow lips curve into a smile, and I notice how even that is lopsided.
She is quite cute. And despite my foul mood, I’ve enjoyed my little chat with the quirky young librarian. She has brightened my day.
I shake her hand, and she reminds me once again to send her my résumé.
“Of course. As soon as I can,” I reply.
She walks me through the library, managing not to bump into anything this time.
“Thank you again, Miriam,” I say once we’re at the front door.
“Oh, I didn’t actually catch your full name.”
“Michael Vanderhorst.”
“Nice to meet you, Mike. Or do you prefer Michael?”
“I’m cool with either,” I say to fit my age, but really I like Michael. “See ya.” I offer her a smile and head out to my rental parked across the street, down a block. The fury inside me has silently welled, and as much experience as I have holding my tongue, I know I’m going to do something unwise today. I can feel trouble brewing in the air.
Or is that just the danger-magnet librarian I’m sensing?