Kneading You

by C. S. Poe

  I had turned to watch Miles before Sam put a hand on my arm. I glanced at him and Sam politely smiled.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Everyone knows one another’s business around here.” I wasn’t entirely sure what he was implying, but I didn’t get a chance to inquire, as Sam continued speaking. “Let me be frank, Christopher. This building won’t survive.”

  “But Mr. Fields said—”

  “It doesn’t matter what Logan told you,” Sam replied. “The state isn’t going to pay for this place to remain open, and we cannot assume we’ll receive enough grants every year to not need the state.”

  “But how can a community not have a library?” I asked, and maybe I sounded naïve, but that was like a town not having firefighters or police. In my humble opinion, at least.

  Sam smiled again, but this time it didn’t feel entirely trustworthy. It was difficult to explain, but you know that gut instinct that tells you whether or not to trust a person? Almost like a fight-or-flight response? It was kicking in and saying something wasn’t right about Mr. Bloom.

  “I have a proposal for this property,” Sam continued. “We need to stop clinging to the past. It’s holding us back from becoming a town firmly rooted in the twenty-first century.”

  “What sort of proposal?” I asked warily.

  “There are pockets of land here and there that cell phones get no service in. Some residents still rely on dial-up internet, believe it or not. I’ve proposed purchasing this property and the surrounding lots from the town to build a cell tower and a new shopping center. It’ll create several new jobs and bring some life back to Main Street.”

  “How will you build a cell tower around the library?”

  Sam laughed heartily, like I was dense. “You’re a sweet guy, Christopher.”

  “I am?”

  “We’d bulldoze the building. It’s too old and needs too much work. It’s not worth keeping.”

  “I—but—that’s exactly why it should be kept! It’s a landmark! There’s so much history—”

  “Yes, I know about the history. You sound like a mini-Logan. This library is not cost-effective. It’s really that simple.”

  “But it’s not about making money,” I declared. “It’s about having a safe and free place for people to come and learn! This town doesn’t even have a bookstore—you have to drive nearly twenty miles to the closest one, and then you have to buy the book! Libraries are here for those who can’t afford to make that purchase. For kids who need resources for school, or even—if we were able to purchase a computer or two, we’d have high-speed internet for those who need something better than dial-up. Libraries are crucial!”

  Sam was not smiling anymore. “I wanted to offer you a job, Christopher.”

  “I don’t want to work at a shopping center,” I replied firmly, crossing my arms. “I want to work here. I cannot in good faith step aside and see this place torn down.”

  Sam was quiet for a beat, like he was deciding on what to say next, but the creaking of Miles on the stairs kept him from offering further rebuttal. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a shame you’ll soon be unemployed.” He turned to the front door. “Nice to meet you,” he added, before walking out.

  “Asshole,” I muttered as the door slammed shut.

  “He’s insufferable,” Miles stated.

  I turned around to look at him standing on the last stair. “Did you hear what he said?”

  Miles nodded. “Sam has made it no secret that he intends to purchase this land. He owns a small construction company, you see.”

  I shook my head, arms dropping to my sides. “I don’t understand people like that. I know this place doesn’t get the traffic a city library would, but….”

  “It’s still important,” Miles finished. “I spent most of my childhood here.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded again.

  My stomach growled suddenly, loud enough to be mistaken for a monster in some underground cavern. “Oh God,” I said, laughing and rubbing my stomach. “I was going to order food before that jerk came in.”

  “I brought lunch,” Miles stated. “Enough to share.”

  “What? No, that’s not necessary.”

  “It’s better than most places in town.” Miles fetched his backpack from the checkout desk.

  I went to his side. “That’s really kind of you. Lunch will be on me next.”

  Miles smiled slightly as he removed a big thermos from the bag. “Just promise you won’t order the chicken wings from Paul’s Pizza.”

  “Why?”

  “They aren’t chicken.”

  I made a face and he laughed. He had a gorgeous laugh—deep and rich—and it made my entire body thrum with delight.

  Miles unscrewed the top of the thermos, the lid doubling as a big cup which he poured a still-hot, creamy soup into. He passed it over and then pulled out a thick slice of bread, unwrapped it, and carefully tore it into two pieces.

  I thanked him again, taking the offering. The bread was warm from being kept next to the thermos, had a golden crust, and a soft center. I took a small bite to taste. It was a simple white bread.

  Or rather, a delicious white bread, I should say, bursting with flavor and tasting of everything precious and beautiful about the countryside. It reminded me of autumn leaves and crisp air. Of woodsmoke from log cabins and snowshoeing in winter. Of rustic home cooking and country fairs.

  “Oh my God,” I said before taking another bite.

  Miles paused, holding a chunk of bread in his soup to sop up. “Is it no good?” he asked with concern.

  “This… did you make this?” I asked, waving the bread.

  “Yes,” he said with clear hesitation.

  “This is the best damn bread I’ve ever tasted!”

  Miles looked relieved, smiled a little, and said, “Thank you.”

  “My mom had a bread machine, but she never used it when I was growing up,” I continued, tearing another piece free. I was sure the soup was homemade and delicious too, but this bread was insane. I could eat it all totally plain.

  “I don’t use a machine,” Miles stated.

  “No? Then… how do you make it?”

  He was starting to look more comfortable, like this topic was solid ground to stand on. I didn’t think he was a reclusive guy, just shy. “By putting yeast in water, kneading it, letting it rise, punching it—”

  “You get violent with the bread?”

  Miles grinned. “To get the air out. Rise it some more, bake it, let it cool….”

  “Wow. I don’t think I’ve met someone who makes bread from scratch.”

  “It’s relaxing.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Three or four hours.”

  “I’m eating four hours of effort?” I exclaimed.

  Miles smiled.

  “It’s really good,” I said again. “Do you make any other kinds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Every kind. Oatmeal, wheat, raisin, cornmeal, sourdough, rye, herb—” Miles abruptly stopped. “You get the point.”

  “So,” I said, dipping the bread into the soup and tasting the combination. “You bake and you fix broken things?”

  Miles shrugged. “Pretty much. What about you?”

  “I burn toast and once broke my finger with a hammer.”

  I LIVED in a little apartment on Water Street, above the local bank. One day I wanted to buy one of the Victorian houses that Lancaster was famous for, but considering I had only just become employed today, it’d probably be a while. I shut the door and flicked on the light switch before dropping my jacket and kicking off my shoes. I’d dragged home several of the heavy ledgers Beatrice kept records of every random bit of information in. I was going to spend the evening trying to glean some figures regarding spending, or inventory, or foot traffic—or anything, really.

  I paused in the hall long enough to turn up the thermostat before going to the kit
chen. I put the heavy books down on the table, then took a moment to make some hot chocolate.

  “Spike it?” I asked myself, looking at the few bottles of liquor in the cupboard above the fridge.

  Does a bear shit in the woods?

  I poured a dash of marshmallow vodka into the mug and sat down with it.

  All right, time to focus. Miles had successfully helped me forget a lot about my meeting with Selectman Sam, but now that he was nowhere in sight and I was left to my own devices, that unfortunate conversation came rushing back.

  Sam Bloom was going to do everything he could to tear that building down. I mean, even if the library was shut down, it could always be transformed into something else. Why bulldoze it? It was heartbreaking to consider. And even worse, I wasn’t sure there was much I could do to prevent it. All I could do was clean the place up, bring it back to working order, try to finagle a digital catalogue of some kind, and at least prepare a proposal to show it wasn’t going to cost an arm and a leg to maintain the facility.

  No one deserved to lose access to books simply because of where they lived.

  I was sufficiently warmed up and a little tipsy after my cocoa, busily making notes on my laptop as I deciphered Beatrice’s records, when my phone buzzed on the tabletop. It was a text message from a number not in my address book.

  Do you like whole wheat?

  I stared at the message before snorting. It had to be Miles.

  Stalker. How’d you get my number? I texted back, having to wait a minute for it to actually send. I needed to buy a better router.

  Mr. Fields.

  Employment information not confidential in small towns?

  The little writing bubbles popped up, vanished, then popped up and left again.

  I sent another message. I’m kidding.

  Oh. Good.

  What’s this about wheat bread?

  Do you like it? Miles responded.

  You know you can call me if you want to chat about bread.

  His bubbles popped up again, followed by I don’t like talking on the phone.

  I chuckled. Miles’s shyness was actually adorable as hell. The juxtaposition—a tall, strong, blue-collar sort of guy too bashful to have a phone conversation—was interesting. And attractive. Miles Sakasai was definitely the kind of guy I’d like to go on a date with, if he were interested. And I was pretty sure, after spending the day with him, he was at least a little into guys. But was he into me specifically?

  Maybe. Because I think we were flirting over bread.

  I like wheat bread. Do you?

  I was going to make some for tomorrow.

  Lunch is on me, remember? I texted back.

  It’s okay.

  How about I bring sandwich makings, and you bring bread?

  It took a moment for his message to come through, but Miles answered, I’d like that.

  I didn’t hear from him again that night. I assumed he was kneading or punching or doing whatever. I would have enjoyed talking to him for real, what with that gravelly, sexy voice of his, but I stayed busy with a second mug of adult cocoa and my records. I eventually moved to the couch, which was haphazardly situated in the middle of the living room, surrounded by still-unpacked boxes, where I fell asleep with a ledger covering my face.

  “GOOD MORNING.”

  I was crouched in front of the minifridge, shoving some groceries inside for future lunches at the library. I shifted and looked up. Miles was standing over me.

  “Hello, Mr. Sakasai,” I said with a broad smile. “I didn’t think to ask last night what sort of sandwiches you like, so I brought a bunch of choices.”

  “You’re very thoughtful.” He set a wrapped loaf of bread down on the counter.

  Miles was wearing some old jeans with paint stains and another T-shirt that fit him like a glove. I peered closer at his colorful arms—tattoos of a goldfish, a pirate ship on the sea, and Japanese woodblock art of some cats and a woman in a kimono. It was a very eclectic bunch of art, but all extremely well done. So he must have gotten paid pretty well elsewhere in town.

  Miles glanced sideways at me, then smiled. “My father doesn’t approve.”

  “Of your tattoos?”

  “He’s a very old-school man.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “When he was growing up in Japan, tattoos still had a stigma. Something the public associated with criminals or gangsters,” Miles explained.

  “I think they’re gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did they hurt?” I asked.

  Miles shook his head. “No. Well—the one on my inner thigh was a bit uncomfortable.”

  My mind took that image and ran with it like a bat out of hell. What in the world was tattooed there? How long did the artist have their head in Miles’s crotch?

  I’d like to be in his crotch….

  “You okay?”

  My cheeks were hot and my pants felt a bit too tight. “Tease.” I walked out of the kitchenette.

  I heard Miles laugh to himself as he followed me out. “Christopher,” he said, catching my elbow at the stairs. “May I ask you a question?”

  I looked up, cocking my head to the side. “Of course.”

  “I was thinking, last night… would you… be interested in dinner? With me. Of course. At my house,” he said, stumbling a bit. God, he was so cute, and nervous and hopefully as excited as I felt.

  “I’m surprised,” I said.

  “That I like men?”

  “No. Yes—no, I suspected you might have. I just thought I’d be the one who’d end up asking you out in the next few days.” I laughed a little and absently tugged on my sweater. “You didn’t strike me as the ‘ask a guy out’ sort.”

  Miles shifted a bit. “I don’t. Not that much.”

  “I’d really like to have dinner with you,” I said.

  His mouth quirked into a small smile. “Tonight?”

  “Sure. How did you know about me, though?”

  “Easy.” He moved by and started down the staircase. “You were checking me out yesterday.”

  “I was not,” I protested.

  “You were.”

  “I was just looking at your tattoos!”

  Miles stopped and turned to stare at me. “You were checking me out,” he said again.

  I rolled my eyes and huffed. “Fine. I checked you out, and I liked what I saw!”

  I HAD estimated the cost and time it would take to put the library into a digital catalogue and convert the old glue-a-card system into scanned bar codes. If Beatrice’s numbers were right, there were only about six thousand books in the library, so while it’d take considerable time, it was less than what I’d expected. If that could be completed first, before dedicating more budget to new inventory, we’d be ahead of the game. But Lancaster needed more books for sure, so that couldn’t be put off too long. The neighboring libraries, according to their websites, had between twelve and thirty thousand books on hand, both in traditional format as well as audio. I had no audio. I also had no magazine subscriptions like some libraries did, if you didn’t count the National Geographic from fifteen years ago up in the storage room.

  Going back several years in Beatrice’s books showed an average annual budget of less than twelve thousand dollars to maintain the library, not including her meager salary. I supposed, based on utility records and purchases made, the building could continue to be maintained on that paltry sum, but to bring our community into the future, I wanted to raise the budget to twenty thousand.

  At least.

  That didn’t include my own income either. And since I was a man who fancied something other than ramen noodles for dinner seven days a week, I wanted more than the criminal salary they’d been offering Beatrice.

  Logan Fields had arrived before lunch to see how I was doing, and the numbers I’d proposed were giving him flop sweat. Literally. He wiped his brow and upper lip with a handkerchief. “Twenty thousand is impossible, Christopher.”<
br />
  “I could manage with eighteen,” I countered. “But you must understand, this community deserves to have what these bigger towns and cities take for granted.”

  “Of course I agree with you,” Logan replied. “But other Selectmen will make this difficult for me.”

  “You mean Sam?”

  He leaned forward in the chair in front of my desk, the legs creaking under his weight. “I suppose he came and introduced himself.”

  “Yes. All but told me to fuck off. Pardon my language.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Logan muttered, looking down at his hands with a scowl.

  “Mr. Fields, is there any way to get a small sum in advance?”

  “Chris—”

  “We can put the entire library online,” I said, cutting him off. “I know about web design, enough to make a little home page. I mean, we don’t even have a sign out front to advertise hours, let alone being searchable on the internet. We can look into having someone list all of the books on the website so folks can see what’s available. We can make a request form to get the community’s input on future purchases, to ensure foot traffic.”

  Logan patted his upper lip with the handkerchief again. “What sort of money are we talking about?”

  I glanced over Logan’s shoulder and watched as Miles exited the disaster room, pulling his bandana down from his mouth. No doubt breathing in the dust was troublesome. “Well, the bar code system would only cost a few hundred.” I quickly kept talking, because he looked a bit too hopeful. “The digital inventory software… I found one for a little under two grand.”

  “Two grand?”

  “And I can make a cheap website for a few hundred more, but once we get back on our feet, I’d seriously suggest hiring a professional to oversee it.”

  Logan shook his head, groaning as if he had indigestion.

  Miles made eye contact with me as he passed by the checkout desk to go upstairs.

  “I know it’s a lot, but this will give the state the records and numbers they want, Mr. Fields. Please,” I finished, consciously having to stop gripping my hands together in desperation.