If the Fates Allow

by Annie Harper

  “Do you teach the computer classes?” Wes asked.

  “No. I’m just—” She waved at her computer printout and half-full cart. “—here. A minion. Doing minion things.”

  “Minions are important.” He smiled at her as if he had a secret. “A minion once told me: Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Mmm, smart minion.”

  He pointed to his résumé. “Here, I worked on it some more. What do you think? Would you hire me?”

  She didn’t need to look to know she’d hire him. He was friendly, polite, funny, and, based on the résumé, smart enough to run a business for close to twenty years. He had won the formatting battle and cleaned up some of his job descriptions and proven qualifications. It was fine, though dull and mechanical.

  “What kind of job are you looking for?” she asked him.

  “One that pays.” He smiled and opened his notebook filled with plastic-sleeved printouts of job listings; he was more organized than most of the staff at the library. “I have a few options, but honestly, I’m pretty open. Management of some sort.”

  “So, this is a good base résumé, but you’re going to want to tweak it for each job you apply for.”

  “What? The cover letter doesn’t do that? One size no longer fits all?”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

  “Is that what you had to do to get this job?”

  “No. Minions don’t have to provide résumés; we have to prove we can spell our names and recite the alphabet.”

  Wes patted the seat next to him, and she took the invitation. “Not your dream job, I take it?”

  “It’s a step. I was an annoying patron who wants to be an annoying librarian, so they gave me an opening.”

  “You’re helpful, not annoying.”

  “Well, you’re not the conservative circulation manager. Her, I annoy. Regularly. Because this is a library, not a Christian bookstore.”

  “See, now. You proved it. You’re the kind of librarian I liked.”

  “You were a library kid too?”

  “I read like a fiend. Still do, but the books at school didn’t include many people that looked like me.”

  “Sadly, they still don’t.”

  “No. And once I was a teenager, I couldn’t find books that helped me understand why I thought boys were much cuter than girls.” He smiled. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I mean, you’re wrong; girls are much cuter than boys.”

  Wes smiled. “See? I needed librarians like you. Mom would take me up to the city library where they had more options. Once I could drive, I’d go and find the deepest stack and read everything I could.”

  “Because you couldn’t take them home…”

  “Nope. Especially with Dad.” Wes sighed and closed his laptop. “You’ve been a great help. And don’t you dare short change yourself or what you do here. Kids in these small towns need you.”

  “Thanks,” Karina said as she stood. “Good luck.”

  “Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that quickly. I’ll be back tomorrow. I have to… tweak… as you say. I might need a helpful librarian.”

  That evening, Uncle Tony picked her up to find a Christmas tree for his shop. In Harding, they passed Westland Sporting Goods. Brown paper covered the windows; the sign remained unlit.

  “Did you ever shop there? Westland?” she asked Tony.

  “I think I got my bat there when I played softball a few years back. Is it closed?”

  “Yeah, the owner comes to the library. Super nice guy. Lost the business and now he’s scrounging for jobs, something he hasn’t done for over twenty years.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “I’ve been helping him with his résumé. It’s weird seeing a whole life condensed onto one piece of paper.”

  Tony scoffed. “Antonio Trovato: barber. How ‘bout one line?”

  At the tree farm, Karina stood in awe. Yesterday’s snow still clung to the trees’ limbs. Utility lights dangled from cords draped between thin wood posts and splayed a glittery golden glow onto the rows of trees. It reminded Karina of a scene in Polar Express—a clear vision of the childlike magic of Christmas.

  “What was your favorite book as a kid, Uncle Tony?” she asked as she fanned her hand along the branches to knock off the wet snow.

  “James and the Giant Peach. Dad would do all the animal’s voices. Half the fun was when Mom would come in all ticked off because I was putting off bedtime. He’d smile and nod and as soon as she closed the door, he’d go right back to it.” He mimicked a cartoon-like voice, quoting the Old-Green-Grasshopper. “There are a whole lot of things in this world of yours that you haven’t started wondering about yet.” He stopped in his tracks and stared at a small tree—four feet tall, if an inch—and cocked his head. “How about this one? He’s nice and round.”

  “Tiny but sturdy. Do you have a box to put him on?”

  “Yeah, I think I have a crate in my gar—” He looked at Karina with sad eyes. “Maybe Aunt Jodi kept it… and the Christmas train we stored in it.”

  “Do you want me to ask her?”

  “I dunno.” He sighed and looked at the holiday scene: families with mitten-handed children tossing snowballs or finding patches of flat ground to make snow angels, couples cuddling against the cold as they chose the perfect addition to their holiday home. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Rina. She’s going to have all the ornaments too.”

  “For your house, but you have all the ornaments your customers have given you.”

  “They’re all barbers with red and green scarves and creepy smiles.”

  “It’s thematic. Let’s get it.” Karina spotted an orange-vested worker walking by. “Excuse me!” The person didn’t immediately return, so Karina headed to the end of the row to find someone else. Before she got there, Orange Vest returned.

  Karina stopped dead in her tracks.

  The girl was stunning: tall and blonde with dark eyebrows and thick eyeliner. She walked with a swagger, and she gripped a bow saw in her hand like she knew how to use it. When Karina couldn’t look her in the eye any longer, she scanned down to the name tag pinned to her vest.

  Merry Christmas, Hailey.

  “You like this one?” Hailey said, grabbing a blanket from a nearby stack. Her voice vibrated with a deep end-of-a-cold rasp.

  Karina stared. Tony nudged her until words blurted from her mouth. “Yes! Yes, um… we like this one. A lot. So much. It’s—” Hailey grinned and tossed the blanket onto the ground, lifted the lower branches and began to saw the trunk in even, practiced strokes. The keys that hung from her belt loop jangled, the nylon of her puffer vest swished, and the long side of her bleached hair flipped in rhythm.

  Karina didn’t speak another word as Tony paid and helped Hailey lift the small tree into the back of his truck. She might have waved to the girl as they left; she might have giggled and missed the door handle getting into Tony’s car. Tony said nothing until they got onto the main drag in Harding.

  “You may not drop out of grad school to become a lumberjack,” he said.

  “I can do anything I want,” Karina said, unable to hide the smirk on her face. “Besides, I don’t want to become a lumberjack. I want to… date one. Apparently. Did you see the way she used that saw and how strong… and her eyes were the most… oh, god. Oh, god.”

  “She was awfully cute. If I didn’t know your barber, I’d say you went to the same shop.”

  “Did you hear her laugh?”

  “I can’t say as I noticed.”

  “Well, I noticed. And I think you and I need a new attitude this Christmas.” She sighed, as fanciful holiday stories swooped and swirled in her mind.

  “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t drag me into your little love story.”

  “Love is not little. It’
s huge. And it’d do you good to get out and stretch your social circle.”

  “I like my social circle, thank you. Clients by day, and me, my couch, and a stack of books by night. Merry Christmas. All the eggnog is mine.”

  “You are hopeless.”

  “And you love me.”

  “Against my better judgment.”

  800 Literature

  “Have you started getting ready for Christmas yet, Wes?” Karina had tried to pry a little Christmas spirit out of her parents over the weekend to no avail. But in spite of their best efforts, she hadn’t lost the thrill from the tree farm. The smell of pine lingered, the snow on thick branches comforted, and the shine she caught in Uncle Tony’s eyes when he admired the tree decorating the corner of his shop gave her hope that at least he was not lost to the joy of the season.

  Given the look on Wes’s face when he glanced up from his laptop, however—“I mean, do you celebrate?” she asked, backtracking. “I shouldn’t assume.”

  “I do. Did. Used to. It’s not a favorite holiday, I’m afraid,” he said, as she sat next to him. “You’re in a good mood today.”

  “I am.” A blush warmed her cheeks.

  “Out with it…”

  “It’s nothing.” She couldn’t lie for long; Christmas might have been part of her elevated spirits, but… “I met—no, I saw this girl. At the tree farm.”

  “Ah, so it’s not Christmas spirit that has you, it’s—” He dropped his voice low and deep. “—a love bomb.”

  “You’re worse than my uncle.”

  “Maybe I’m smart like your uncle. Was she cute?”

  “Yes, and she might have flirted with me,” she said with a dreamy sigh. “In spite of my dad’s Scrooge-y behavior this weekend, I’m still giddy.”

  “Is Dad a fun scrooge, or—”

  “Or. He’s a jerk three-sixty-five, so that’s nothing new. Won’t put the decrepit tree up before the twenty-fourth, tosses on thirty-year-old tinsel and his grandmother’s scratch-and-dent ornaments, and calls it a day.”

  “Maybe they’re important to him?”

  “The only thing important to Dad is that he’s in charge.”

  “So go back to the tree farm and get one for your room. Bonus: love bomb.”

  Karina laughed. “I doubt she remembers me.” She moved to leave but stopped. “You don’t spend the holiday alone, do you? I mean… at least I have Mom.”

  “I have dinner with a couple friends. Enjoy the quiet. Try to forget—” Wes reached for his mouse and focused on his laptop. “I found a few jobs to apply for. You wanna see if my résumé is specific enough for them?”

  “Sure,” she said. She touched his arm and offered a sad smile and an apology. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. Every year gets easier.”

  “You lost someone.”

  “A long time ago. I probably wasn’t much older than you are now. Ian and I bought Westland together.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. And here I am whining about my ugly tree.”

  Wes looked at Karina with a warm compassion she had seen from only one man before: Uncle Tony. “I had a jerk for a dad too,” he said. “It’s hard loving someone who won’t live up to your simple expectations.”

  “Thank you,” she said, as she stared at his laptop. “So, what did you find?” He had named each résumé file with the prospective job: a management position at the gym up on Manchester, and a job at— “Wes. You do not want this job.”

  “I can’t afford to be picky. Money’s tight until I sell the Westland building.”

  “This isn’t going to pay you enough to buy a stick of gum every third Tuesday.” The job was for a clerk at a used bookstore on Sullivant. The place was a dump. It remained open because the owner’s grandfather croaked and left her the building. The stock consisted of donated, yellowed, moldy-smelling books that had lived in various citizens’ basements since the Nixon years. If not Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt.

  “Okay,” Wes conceded, “but the place is a mess. They need a manager. I can start—”

  “Wes.”

  With one blink, his look morphed from that of a bumbling paternal father into an irritated professor. “Does the résumé look appropriate for the jobs or not?”

  “I don’t think the bookstore will need a résumé,” she said. “Can they read?”

  “Now you’re being bratty.” A grin defied his harsh tone. “I love bookstores. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, so maybe surrounding myself—”

  “You have? Wes! You need to write, then. Don’t work at some two-bit bookstore for a pittance.” Karina caught her supervisor eyeing her across the room. She got up and shuffled the books on her cart while they continued to talk. “Have you started anything?”

  “I have scraps and notebooks filled with ideas. That’s why I bought this,” he said, pointing to his laptop. “But, rent.”

  “But, fulfilling a dream!”

  “Electricity.”

  “A novel, Wes. How long have you wanted to? Why not now?”

  “Since I was a kid—since Dad read me James and the Giant Peach.”

  She stopped shuffling and blinked. “James and the Giant—”

  “What? Don’t you like Roald Dahl?”

  “I love him—Matilda is one of my favorites,” she said. “Someone else mentioned that book last week, is all.” It’s kismet.

  Filled with images of tree farms and bow saw-wielding girls, Karina began to spin dreams of romantic Christmases: a trip to the farm to help Uncle Tony and Wes pick out their tree; snowball fights at Greendale Metro; kisses under the mistletoe she had snuck into Uncle Tony’s apartment.

  “—can see how you like that one.” Wes looked at her, obviously waiting for her to respond. She hadn’t the slightest notion what he’d been talking about. “Matilda,” he helpfully offered. “You seem a lot like her: smart, curious, crappy dad…”

  “At least my mom tries,” she said. “And I don’t have Matilda’s courage to fight my crappy dad.”

  “What do you mean you don’t—look at you.” She’d have been uncomfortable if his gaze hadn’t been so kind: over her hair, shaved close on one side and long to her chin on the other; the line of piercings that trailed down one ear; her funky, oversized glasses, and the corner of a tattoo—a shelf stuffed with books—that peeked from the open collar of her shirt. “You fight him by being yourself.”

  Karina touched the buzz cut side of her hair, a cut Uncle Tony had given her after four-too-many home hair coloring debacles. “You’ll look cool and piss off your father,” he’d said. “Trust me.” And he was right: She looked cool, and dad was furious.

  But right now, she wanted to hear more about James and how his giant peach affected Wes’s dream to be a writer. “So, how does a book about an oversized stone fruit inspire a little boy to write?”

  “It’s full of wild imagery, you know? Mom and I read it every night for months, and when she’d turn out my light, I’d grab my flashlight and notebook and write new adventures with the grasshopper and the ladybug.” Wes chuckled. “I missed a lot of sleep.”

  “I think Mr. Dahl would approve,” she said.

  “True, but now I need to send these résumés off, because car insurance is not free.”

  On her way out for the day, Karina grabbed the library’s copy of James and the Giant Peach and gave it to Wes. He immediately flipped to a specific page, sat back in his chair, and began to read.

  Forty-five minutes later Karina stood outside in the blistering cold because, in true Mr. Wormwood style, her dad hadn’t bothered to pick her up. Her mother told her that walking five miles in negative wind chill—in the dark—wasn’t asking too much. With no other option, Karina buttoned up tighter and headed out. She wasn’t out of the parking lot when an unfamiliar car pulled up.

 
“Do you need a ride?” The passenger window lowered, and Wes’s breath ghosted in front of his face. Cool jazz played from the car stereo. A lifetime of, “Don’t accept rides from strangers,” and “It’s against library policy,” made her pause. “At least wait in the car so you can stay warm,” he added at her hesitation.

  “I’m not nearby,” she conceded. Her fingers might never thaw.

  “I’m not going anywhere but home. Hop on in.”

  Karina did, plopping her enormous bag filled with everything important—books, notebooks, a cell phone, tablet, and a bag full of colored pens—onto the floor. “Thank you. My dad is an asshole.”

  “We determined that earlier.” He put the car in drive, cranked up the heat, and grinned. “Point the way!”

  She chewed on her bottom lip as she gathered the courage to mention the daydreams that had kept her mind occupied that afternoon. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. She kept her eyes on the road ahead in case her next sentence flopped like a basket of rotten tomatoes. “You might like my Uncle Tony.”

  Wes remained quiet; his finger, softly tapping to the music, never paused. “Huh. What’s so special about Uncle Tony?”

  Karina dared a glance Wes’s way. He seemed cautiously interested. “Well, he’s… I mean, he’s—” She was not going to say Uncle Tony’s interest in men was the main impetus. That was absurd and wrong, but— “He was married to my Aunt Jodi.”

  “Your Aunt Jodi.” Wes pulled up to a traffic light. “If he was married to your aunt—what makes you think he’d be interested in me?”

  Karina rolled her eyes. “There are such things as bisexuals, you know.”

  “I—I do know, yes. I’m sorry.” He looked at her with a pained smile. “I’m so out of the dating game that I—yes.” He continued to tap his steering wheel to the music. “You said ‘was’ married—is that why it’s past tense?”