“The library?”
Annie nods. “Mister McLeary offered me a job at the bank, but it was as an assistant in the bookkeeping department.” She hesitates a moment then wrinkles her nose. “You don’t find happiness working with numbers. I know that only too well.”
Annie tells of her experience at the library. She describes in detail the feel of the books and the faces of those coming and going. When she has finished she gives a wistful sigh.
“Numbers are only numbers,” she says, “but books and stories, that’s where the magic is.”
Ophelia thinks back on the stories Edward once told and doesn’t disagree.
Annie
If a year ago you’d told me I would be working as an assistant librarian, I’d have laughed in your face. Not me, I would have said, I’m an actuarial.
Back then I thought numbers were the measurement of life. The things that counted were the date you were born, the number of years you’re supposed to live, the amount of money you earn, the cost of your car, the number of rooms in your house—anything and everything could be boiled down to a number. Instead of using a person’s name, I added up all those other numbers and filed them under a Social Security Number.
Even my relationship with Michael had a number. We did one of those magazine tests to see if we were each other’s perfect match and scored 100. Perfectly matched, according to the article. When we’d argue and be totally at odds with one another, I’d pull the copy of that test from my nightstand drawer, read it again and convince myself that everything would work out fine—not based on what my heart was telling me, but just on the numbers. How foolish is that?
I should have realized there is no number for happiness. You can’t hold it in your hand, touch it or measure it; you just know it’s there. And having it makes a gigantic difference in your life. It’s a shame it took me so long to figure that out.
I’m excited about working at the library. Just being there gives me a good feeling. It’s as if I know something good is going to happen but have no idea what it is.
When Ophelia first told me about feeling the memories other people had left behind I thought she was just an eccentric old lady, but I’ve come to see she’s way smarter than I am.
The world is full of things that can’t be numbered or even explained; I know that sounds like a lot of hocus-pocus, but it’s not. Before you find the magic of life you have to open yourself up to the possibility of it being there. When I was walking around the library I could practically see the years of people who had passed through those very same aisles. I imagined ladies in long skirts and men in striped vests searching for just the right book. I could feel the magic of that place, and I wanted to be part of it.
The truth is I would have worked there for free if I had to. Luckily Giselle offered me a job.
The Library
For five days Annie thinks of nothing but the library. Twice she drives into Langley just to visit it again. On the second trip she brings Ophelia, and they stroll arm in arm through the stacks.
Whispering as if it were a cardinal sin to speak loudly, she asks, “Do you feel the magic of this place?”
Ophelia nods, but she knows Annie feels something that she does not.
As they walk Annie touches her fingers lovingly to the spine of first one book and then another, and Ophelia wonders if the girl’s power to find memories is growing stronger as her own grows weaker. It has been years since a relic of the past has called to her and given up a special memory.
Such a thought sits uncomfortably on Ophelia’s shoulders. Not because she is saddened by the loss of her own power, but because she fears Annie may unleash some unknown terror. Through the years this finding of memories has been simply a pleasant distraction for Ophelia, but with Annie it’s something more.
Annie pulls a T.S. Lawrence book from the shelf and thumbs through the pages.
“I think there’s a secret hidden here,” she whispers. “A secret I’m supposed to find.”
The book is old, the spine crackled and bent back on the bottom edge. The gilt title is dulled and almost unreadable, but when Annie sets the book back on the shelf Ophelia sees it is Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
“Why did you pick that book?” Ophelia asks.
Annie shrugs. “I don’t know. My hand just went to it.”
~ ~ ~
On the first Monday of October Annie starts her new job. Instead of dressing in the conservative blue suit, she wears beige gabardine slacks and a sweater the violet of her eyes. There is no way of knowing whether it is the excitement of this day or simply the warmth of the sweater, but when she kisses Ophelia goodbye her face is flushed with color.
Before Giselle arrives to unlock the door, Annie is waiting on the steps.
“I guess you’re anxious to get started,” Giselle says with a laugh.
Annie answers that she is indeed and follows Giselle through the door.
Although she has spent three afternoons walking through the stacks, there is still much to be learned. Most of the first day is spent studying the Dewey decimal system and familiarizing herself with the library layout.
On the second day, Giselle produces a metal cart loaded with books and assigns Annie the task of replacing each book in the proper spot. Although the cart is piled high and heavy to push, Annie smiles. She handles each book with the same reverence Ophelia uses with her treasures.
Her day is supposed to end at five o’clock, but Annie stays until Giselle locks the door at seven. Once the metal cart is cleared she logs in the books returned during the busy afternoon and stacks them on the empty cart.
Tuesday is Annie’s day off, but she tells Giselle she would be happy to come in to re-shelve the new stack of books.
Giselle laughs and says such a thing is not necessary.
“You don’t have to pay me,” Annie adds. “I’ll do it as a volunteer.”
“You worked hard today,” Giselle replies. “Take the day off so you’ll be ready for Wednesday.”
Annie hears a hidden promise. “Why? What will I be doing?”
Giselle smiles. “I’m going to let you start working the desk.”
Even though she knows she will miss being away from the library for a full day, Annie is cheered by thoughts of thunking down the date stamp and chatting with the people who come through with an armful of books.
On the drive home she can already picture herself sitting behind the desk.
It is early October, but the leaves have begun to turn and a chill has settled in the air. The garden is ready for winter. Most of the flowers and herbs have been clipped and are now on the drying racks in the apothecary. There are few chores left to do—a bit of dusting perhaps and a quick run through with the vacuum cleaner. Still Annie rises early on Tuesday morning.
She has breakfast on the table when Ophelia comes down.
“I’m sorry about the tea,” Annie says. “I put an extra scoop in, but it’s still rather weak.” She sets a mug on the table and fills it. Instead of the rich golden color Ophelia is used to, the tea is a pale shadow of its former self.
“If you want I can make another pot,” Annie adds.
Ophelia takes a sip and says, “This tea tastes fine.” She knows the dandelion tea is weak because she has mixed it with a large amount of chamomile. After ridding herself of the watch and the locket, Ophelia still fears Annie might discover dangerous memories in the other treasures. She is praying a milder tea will lessen the girl’s ability to connect with such things.
As Annie carries a basket of blueberry muffins to the table she tells of her intent to ride Ethan Allen’s bicycle again today.
“I feel that I’m getting to know the boy,” she says, “and I like him.”
The expression on Ophelia’s face droops. “Oh,” she says. It is only a single syllable, but it slides downhill like a runaway wagon.
“What’s wrong?” Annie asks.
“I rather hoped we could go shopping today,” Ophelia replies.
Because it is the first thing that comes to mind she adds, “I need some new dish towels.”
“No problem,” Annie says. “I’ll ride the bicycle later.”
The thought of the bicycle prompts Annie to tell of the things she has heard. “Ethan Allen used this bicycle to run errands.”
She now calls the boy by name, not just once in a while but every time. “People paid him for doing it. I’ve heard the jingle of change in his pocket.”
“That could have been anything,” Ophelia replies. “Kids playing Tiddlywinks in their backyard, maybe.”
“It wasn’t,” Annie says. There is no doubt in her voice.
Annie still has Ethan Allen’s ball, and every night she sleeps with it beneath her pillow. Sometimes she dreams of the boy but has never seen his face.
She has seen a dime dropping into his small hand and felt the racing of his heart. It has the thump-thump-thump of a frightened rabbit, but she has yet to discover why.
November
It is a month to the day since Annie started working at the library. She now does everything Giselle does. She has a key to the front entrance, and on Monday morning she unlocks the door. Monday is Giselle’s day off.
It is on this first Monday of November that Annie finds what she has been looking for.
The day starts off as a rather ordinary one. Annie sips her coffee, logs in the returned books and adds them to the stack Giselle has left on the metal cart. The books will be shelved at the end of the day, when and if she has time.
It is not yet nine-thirty when a young man comes to the desk asking for assistance.
“I’m looking for a Civil War reference book,” he says. “Something with in-depth detail on the battle of Shiloh.”
Now familiar with the historical reference section, Annie leads him to the spot. There are nine shelves of books on the Civil War. He eyes the section then turns to Annie.
“Any idea which one deals specifically with Shiloh?”
“Not really,” she answers, “but I’ll check the index file.”
For most of the morning Annie is back and forth with the young man. She gives him suggestions on first one book and then another, and when the very one he needs is missing she spends an hour searching for it.
In between trips back and forth to the historical reference section, she signs books in and out, answers a telephone call and smiles at the patrons who come her way.
This day is busier than usual, but Annie doesn’t mind. At lunchtime she remains at the desk and nibbles a tuna fish sandwich brought from home. The stack on the metal cart grows larger as more books are returned, but there is no time for shelving them. That’s a task to be done in the off times. It is not one that takes precedence over other things.
At seven o’clock, when the last of the library patrons have left the building, Annie locks the door. The stack of books on the return cart is now considerably larger, and it has been a long day.
For a moment she considers leaving the books for Giselle to replace on Tuesday. That has been their arrangement thus far, and Giselle has never complained about it. But Giselle is expecting a baby in two months, and Annie has seen how her steps have grown heavier. When she squats to replace a book on the bottom shelf there is a laborious grunt, and it’s the same when she stretches to reach one of the higher shelves.
After a quick call to Ophelia to say she will be an hour or so late coming home, Annie wheels the cart from behind the desk and heads for the fiction area.
Novels are stacked on the top shelf of the cart, reference and textbooks on the lower shelf.
Annie has learned to look first at the index number on the spine. In a single glance it tells her where the book belongs. Were she to stop and read the author’s name and title, the job would take twice, maybe three times as long.
Novels are alphabetized according to the author’s last name. Annie starts in the As, replacing a worn copy of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women and moves along until she slips Thornton Wilder’s Our Town back onto the shelf. In less than twenty minutes the top shelf of the cart is empty.
She moves to the reference department. These books take longer because they are arranged first by subject matter, then by author name. All too often it means running from one stack to another that is located four or five aisles away.
Annie is down to the last four books when she reaches for a heavy book marked for the Legal section. The moment her hand touches it, she knows. A shiver runs from the tip of her fingers to her heart, then splinters and scatters itself throughout her body. Even before Annie looks at the title of this book, she is certain she has found what she has been looking for.
She lifts the book and holds it with both hands. It is an oversized volume with a burgundy leather binding and gold leaf letters that read The Wisdom of Judicial Judgment in the Practice of Law. At the bottom is the name of the author: Ethan Allen Doyle.
This is her bicycle boy. He has grown to be a man, a man of law and principles. A man who has authored a book.
Leaving the last three books on the cart, Annie wheels it back to the desk and goes to the library’s computer. Entering the name Ethan Allen Doyle, she begins with the Virginia judicial records.
At first she finds nothing but continues to scroll through what is a seemingly endless list of judges. There are individual listings for each court—Bankruptcy Court, Civil Court, Criminal Court, Divorce and Property settlement.
None have an Ethan Allen Doyle registered.
It is over an hour before she happens on the listing of United States Court Officers for the Eastern District of Virginia. Two pages down she hits the listing for Family Court Judge Ethan Allen Doyle.
“Yes!” she shouts and bounds out of the chair.
According to the listing Judge Ethan Allen Doyle sits on the bench of Family Court in Wyattsville, Virginia, a town less than an hour’s drive from Burnsville.
Annie’s first thought is to call Ophelia and give her the good news, but she wants to do more; she wants to be there so she can see the amazement on Ophelia’s face. Finding the book proves her destiny is with the bicycle boy himself. There is no other explanation.
Now in a rush to lock up the library and get home, she hurriedly shuts down the computer, gathers her things, tucks the book under her arm and heads for the door.
Had she scrolled down another few lines she might have noticed the listing for Judge Doyle was dated June 1994.
Before she leaves Langley, Annie stops at the liquor store and buys a bottle of champagne. In her mind finding the bicycle boy is definitely cause for celebration.
When Annie arrives back at the house she hurries to the kitchen where she is certain she will find Ophelia. The small lamp on the table is lit, but the overhead is off and the stove is cold. There is a note on the table.
In a handwritten scrawl, Ophelia says she is tired and going to bed early. “Nothing to worry about,” she adds.
Next to the note is a covered plate of sliced chicken and pear salad.
Dumbfounded, Annie stands looking at the note. It is a letdown in what was to have been a moment of victory. She tries to convince herself that the celebration will be just as sweet tomorrow morning, but the argument is unconvincing.
Setting the bottle of champagne in the refrigerator she turns, circles back through the hallway and tiptoes up the staircase. She wants to believe there is a possibility Ophelia is not yet asleep, in which case it would be okay to gently tap on the door and ask if she’d like to hear the news.
Standing outside the door Annie hears nothing. No rustling around, no whispering sounds of radio music. She waits several minutes then eases the door open. Ophelia is turned on her side, sound asleep.
Annie closes the door and retreats down the stairs.
She is bursting with the excitement of having found the bicycle boy and has no one to tell. The thrill of her discovery is somehow lessened.
For a long while Annie sits at the table alone. She thumbs through the book, r
eading an odd sentence here and there, but it is hard to concentrate on the words. When she tires of reading, she begins to imagine Ethan Allen’s expression when he learns his bicycle is now good as new and she’s been riding it around the streets of Burnsville for over three months.
This image settles in Annie’s head, and she starts to smile.
Since Ophelia is not available to hear the news, Annie considers calling Ethan Allen himself. She pulls out her cell phone, clicks Safari and searches the White Pages directory for Wyattsville, Virginia.
Three Doyles are found. None of them are listed as Ethan Allen, yet she copies the address and phone number for all three.
It is after ten when she dials the first number—a listing for Barbara Jean Doyle.
As Annie listens to the telephone ring she nervously twists the pen in her fingers. On the third ring, she takes to drawing tiny little circles along the side of the paper. Shortly after the eighth ring someone picks up the receiver.
“George, is that you?” a woman shouts. “It better not be you ’cause I warned you about calling me at this hour!”
Annie has practiced what she will say, but now the words are stuck in her throat. Before she pulls her thoughts together, the woman grumbles, “Damn nutbugger!” and slams down the receiver.
Rather than risk the ire of someone related to Ethan Allen, Annie sets the paper aside.
The phone calls will have to wait until tomorrow; tonight the only thing she can do is place the Spalding ball under her pillow and hope for a dream to come.
Tuesday
For the first time since she began work at the library Annie is glad to have the day off. She has her day planned. Shortly after nine she will call all three numbers, locate Ethan Allen Doyle, then drive over to Wyattsville and meet him.
Memory House: Memory House Collection (Memory House Series Book 1) Page 15
