by Cathy Lamb
“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.
After about three hours of sleep, I went on my paper route, passed Dean Garrett’s home, acknowledged I missed Paul Bunyan, helped out on Aunt Lydia’s farm, then went early to the library.
At exactly 1:00, Shawn and Carrie Lynn showed up, Sh
awn with his backpack, Carrie Lynn with her dirty blanket, which she still sometimes pulled over her head. They showed up the next day after that and the next. Every day for an hour, despite The Vulture’s withering looks, Shawn and Carrie Lynn and I would read together.
We read fairy tales, although Shawn pretended that he thought they were silly. We read books on earthquakes and hurricanes and sports figures. We read books on rocks and minerals, the weather, and life on an Oregon Trail wagon train. We read books about the stars and evolution and dragons and boys who got into trouble in school. We read everything.
And I had the kids read to me.
Within a couple of weeks Shawn had made enormous progress on his reading, and Carrie Lynn knew basic words. I could get her to read out of a book, but she still wouldn’t speak to me.
One afternoon I asked Shawn what was inside the backpack he always carried. Inside was a beaten-up water bottle. An apple. A stained T-shirt, a sweatshirt for him, a sweater and skirt for Carrie Lynn. The clothes I had seen before. They were all dirty. Even the backpack smelled.
I remembered that smell, too well. It made me want to cry.
I knew from my own pathetic experience that the state would not take children away from their parents because they looked tired and dirty, but I didn’t have to stand by and do nothing. So I started smuggling in food for them each day: apples from Aunt Lydia’s trees, hard-boiled eggs with a little container of salt, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for each of them, two bottles of juice, and, their favorite, my chocolates. I always snuck a few to them while we read, and their sweet, tired, worried-looking faces lit up.
I got information on their lives in bits and pieces when I asked a few well-chosen questions. “You and Carrie Lynn look tired today, Shawn. Did you go to sleep late last night?”
He shrugged. “My mom’s friends wouldn’t go to sleep. They were up all night.”
Or I would ask, “Shawn, what did you and Carrie Lynn do after Story Hour yesterday?”
“Not much. My mother was gone, so Carrie Lynn and I stayed at the apartment, and then when Bingham came over we went to the park and swang on the swings.”
“What time did you go home?”
“I don’t know. It was dark. No one else was in the park. Carrie Lynn got cold even with her blanket on her shoulders. Can we read about airplanes now?”
“Who’s Bingham?”
“That’s my mother’s friend. Can we read about airplanes, please?” His eyes would sometimes get that worried look, and Carrie Lynn would make these sad hiccupping sounds, so we would read.
But his mother’s friend’s name would change regularly, and he couldn’t tell me much about the friends. “My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to her friends. She says they don’t want to be bothered by a brat.”
Shawn didn’t say it with any resentment, nor did he seem to think that “brat” was a negative name. Just a fact.
On Mondays I noticed that Shawn and Carrie Lynn were especially hungry, so I started packing them bigger sacks of food for their backpack for the weekend. On Monday I also brought extra food. I bought them two new toothbrushes and a comb-and-brush set, and shampoo.
“It took me two hours to get the tangles out of Carrie Lynn’s hair,” Shawn told me the next day. “But look how good it looks now.”
“Beautiful,” I choked, thinking of Shawn brushing out Carrie Lynn’s hair for two hours. “Beautiful.”
12
“What happened to your arm, buddy?” I asked Shawn. Carrie Lynn whimpered, held Shawn’s hand with one hand and with the other pulled her blanket over her head. Shawn looked straight ahead. “Let’s just read,” he said, pulling away and sitting down on the floor. Purple and blue bruises lined his right arm. Carrie Lynn crawled over to sit in his lap, the blanket still on her head.
“Can I see your back?” I asked and then lifted his shirt before he could say no. I did the same with Carrie Lynn’s shirt, then I quickly started reading a book, Shawn and Carrie Lynn cuddled up to me. I felt ill. Their backs were spotted with new bruises.
I called Children’s Services after they left. They were very polite, said they would send someone out, noted that other people had also called about the children.
On the third day after that incident, the kids didn’t show up for Story Hour, nor did they show on the fourth or fifth day.
On the sixth day, when I was thinking that maybe Children’s Services had stepped up to the plate and done something, I looked out my window and saw Shawn and Carrie Lynn running for the library, Carrie Lynn’s blanket swinging behind her.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief, greeting them at the door, ignoring the glower of Ms. Cutter.
I welcomed them back to Story Time, even though I was surprised. I had assumed that they had been taken away from their mother. When I was sure that Ms. Cutter was back at work, I gave Shawn and Carrie Lynn the lunch I had brought them just in case they came.
They tore into the tuna sandwiches. They ate apples and bananas and yogurt and chips, and then they popped the chocolate truffles I’d made into their mouths. Carrie Lynn was positively scrawny. She sat as close to Shawn as she could without being right on his lap.
“My mom is real mad at you,” he said, whispering, right in the middle of the story.
“Why?”
But of course I knew why.
“She said you called the police. The police came over to my house the other night and looked at me and at my bruises and they told her to shape up. She told them I got the bruises when I got in a fight with my cousins, but I ain’t got no cousins, but she told me to say it anyhow.”
“So did you say it?”
Shawn looked like he was about to cry. “I had to. Barber was there.”
“Barber?”
“One of my mother’s friends.”
Carrie Lynn pulled her blanket over her head.
“Barber is really big, and he yells at us a lot, and he told me if I didn’t say it that he would hurt my mother.”
I kneaded the muscles in my neck. Shawn and Carrie Lynn were living my childhood all over again.
“I’m sorry, Shawn and Carrie Lynn.” I hugged Carrie Lynn to me. She still didn’t talk much, but at least she let me hug her.
“Can we read about earthquakes again, Miss Bennett?” Shawn asked, wiping away tears with both hands.
I nodded yes and grabbed a couple of earthquake books, vowing to call Children’s Services as soon as I left this dark tomb of a library with its shaded windows and bleak children’s area.
I called, told them what Shawn told me. “We understand your concerns, Ms. Bennett, but these children are not at risk for bodily harm. Parents have a right to discipline their children.”
“But their mother is disciplining her children with bruises.”
“There weren’t that many bruises, according to our social worker. We appreciate your call, but there’s nothing we’ll be doing in this case until a time should come where it appears the children are in danger.”
“But what did your social worker tell you about their appearance? Their clothes? How dirty they are?”
“Ms. Bennett, we don’t take children out of their parents’ home when their clothes are dirty. Surely you know that? I have another call now—I know you understand.” Click.
“Under the light of the moon is the best time to make chocolate,” Aunt Lydia told me that night. It was about ten o’clock at night, and elbow to elbow we were whipping up a batch of Chocolate Cream Puffs for Rosita and Jacqueline, who had the flu. “I’m blowing snot out of my nose every hour by the gallon, and Jacqueline’s got diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea,” Rosita yelled at me over the phone when I called to check up on her. “We’re sick as vomiting dogs.”
We had earlier made Mocha Velvet Cream Pots for Marie, who was married to Dave, Stash’s foreman and right hand man for “the Biz.” Marie had lost her ninety-two-year-old mother the week before.
I wondered who else in town we could cook fo
r. I was so upset about Shawn and Carrie Lynn I thought I might cook all night.
“When you’re under the light of the moon, you should think. Think, think, think, Julia!” Aunt Lydia said, her braids, all seven of them, swinging around her shoulders as she heated the egg yolks and sugar. “Some people think moonlight is a splendiferous time to get romantic. They obviously have not fully evolved. When moonlight touches you, it’s time for a woman to sit back and think, really think, about her life.”
I looked right up into the face of the moon, bold and bright and sending out rays of light in four different directions like a cross.
I added cocoa and flour to melted butter. I didn’t particularly feel like thinking about my life. Sometimes you just want to put all of your problems and worries and fears in a box and put that box deep inside yourself and shut the lid for a while, if only to get a little peace before the lid flies off and hits you in the face with another problem.
“See, love? Moonshine is lucky,” Lydia said. “The moon is reflecting the sun. The sun is hidden. The moon isn’t. It’s just there. Right there. The light around it is asking you to put a light on your own life.”
I knew what was coming. “So, Aunt Lydia, what is the moonlight telling you? What are you really, really thinking about?”
Aunt Lydia paused, then stopped and stared at me. “I’m really thinking about you.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out like a tight wheeze instead. “I thought the moonlight was supposed to make women think about their own lives, not others’.”
“You are my life, sugar.” For once her voice was quiet. “I hope you can forgive me.”
My hands stilled. “Forgive you?”
“Yes, forgive me.”
“Aunt Lydia, what in the world do you need me to forgive you for?”
