by Hart, Renee
We changed the display every month. I was in the middle of taking down some of the books and pieces to replace them with books for Women's History Month. I left up the books by African American women and added a few by Roxane Gay, Jenny Baum, Meg Wolitzer, and the classic feminist authors like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and Doris Lessing. I always tried to keep a wide variety on display, to cater to different tastes while still engaging the students and exposing them to important works of literature.
While I worked, I was engaged in a debate with my two assistants, sophomore students named Daniel and Kevin.
“I just don't see why I should read a book just because a woman wrote it,” Kevin said. He dug through some of the books on the cart, looking at the covers. “Besides, these all look boring, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Daniel added. “Isn't it sexist? I mean, if someone said you should read a book just because a man wrote it, people would call that sexist.”
“That's different,” I said with a weary sigh as I arranged the new books in the case.
“Why?” Kevin asked.
“Because you've been reading books by men your whole life,” I said. “Female authors have to work twice as hard just to get a chance.”
“So I should read them just because they worked harder?” Kevin asked, frowning. He handed me a couple of books to add to the shelf. “That doesn't make sense. I want to read a book because it's good, not because the author had a rough time of it.”
“And how will you know if it's good,” I asked, “unless you give some female authors a shot?”
We kept going back and forth for awhile as we worked, while I tried to find a way to get through to these kids. I finally realized part of the stumbling block was a question of taste; both Kevin and Daniel preferred sci fi novels, so classic literature wouldn't appeal to them, regardless of the gender of the author.
“Try J.K. Accinni,” I suggested. “And Julie Czerneda. Or if you want something classic, Mary Shelley.”
“Who's that?” Kevin asked.
“She wrote Frankenstein,” I said.
“Wait, Frankenstein was written by a chick?” Daniel asked.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at him. “By a woman, yes.”
“I never read Frankenstein,” Kevin said. “I mean, I've seen him in movies, but I never read the book.”
“It's a classic,” I said, giving them both an encouraging smile.
They left after that to head to class, and I held on to a small hope that they might take a few of my suggestions seriously. I continued setting up the new display as the morning wore on. I was nearly done when the library's lumberjack strolled through the door.
“Morning, Sharada,” he said as he walked by.
“Good morning,” I said, watching him walk past and head for the stairs. I didn't know the man's name, and I didn't really know if he was a lumberjack. The library staff just called him that because he always came in wearing Timberlands, old worn blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. He also had a full, dark beard and a rough, weathered face, like a man who spent most of his time outdoors. He was something of a mystery to us.
The library was open to the public in addition to the university students, so we got a few locals coming in on a regular basis. But the lumberjack never talked about himself, never made small talk. He just came in a few times a week and sat in one of the reading lounges on the second floor. He never checked a book out to take home with him. He just sat for a few hours, kept to himself, and read.
I had told myself on more than one occasion that I should go up and talk to him, and at least ask his name. But the library was meant to be a quiet place, and interrupting his reading felt wrong.
A little while later, as I was going over some new acquisitions, one of the other librarians came up to me with a big grin on her face.
“Sharada, you'll never guess what the lumberjack is reading,” Jessica said.
“Trees From Around the World?” I guessed, smirking.
“Dork,” she said. “No, he's reading The Bell Jar.”
“Really?” I pursed my lips, deep in thought. The lumberjack's reading selection varied so much that we could never predict what he would pick up next. I'd seen him reading classic and modern works, contemporary, sci fi, fantasy, poetry, and even Young Adult. The Bell Jar made it even harder to pick out a pattern to his tastes. It was Sylvia Plath's only full-length novel; she was mostly known for her poetry and short stories. She'd committed suicide a month after The Bell Jar was completed. It was a dark classic, a journey into a troubled mind, and its choice by the lumberjack spoke of a depth I hadn't previously considered of him.
“I guess he chose it for Women's History Month?” Jessica suggested.
“I guess that's possible,” I said. The Bell Jar wasn't one of the books I'd put up in the front display, but I had put up one of Plath's short story collections. Maybe her name had caught his eye as he walked by, and he'd decided to look into her works.
I smiled, thinking that even if I hadn't gotten through to Kevin and Daniel, maybe I had helped someone else be introduced to a piece of classic women's literature. That thought brought me pleasure, even as I found myself pondering more and more just who our mysterious lumberjack was.
One of these days, I was going to have to strike up a real conversation with him so that I could start figuring him out.
Chapter 2
I walked to the parking lot later that night, clutching my cardigan around myself and wishing that I'd brought a proper jacket. Winter was just about over, and there had been a string of warm days, teasing me with the promise of spring. But winter was still being moody, and today's frigid weather was just another mood swing before the season went back to sleep until the end of the year.
A few students I knew waved at me as they passed, saying, “Have a nice night Mrs. Patil!” I smiled at them and wished them well, but I hurried on without stopping to chat, wanting to get out of the weather. I crossed the employee parking lot, already digging my keys out of my purse so I could get into my car as quickly as possible. It wasn't quite dark yet, since the days were starting to get longer, but the shadows were growing long and the darkness was quickly approaching.
When I got to my car, my ex-husband was there, leaning against the hood.
“Sharada,” he said, stepping away from the car. He stood there with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. The cold wind ruffled his dark hair. He had the dark skin common to the Indian heritage on his mother's side, but stunning blue eyes inherited from his white father. His parents had named him Sunil after the Sanskrit words for “very blue,” in honor of his eyes. I had once loved the way those eyes seemed to gaze into my very soul.
Now I couldn't stand the sight of them.
“You aren't supposed to be here, Sunil,” I said.
He stepped forward, pulling his hands from his pockets. I flinched and stepped back, half-expecting him to be holding a weapon. He had never been violent with me, but I knew he owned a gun. His hands were empty, but I didn't let myself relax.
“I'm just here to talk, Sharada,” he said, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace.
My eyes moved from his hands to his face. I took another step back, clutching my sweater tighter. “Sunil, I've told you to leave me alone. I have a restraining order. Do you want me to call the police?”
He lowered his hands and took another step towards me. I wondered whether I'd be able to get my phone out and call 911 before he closed the distance between us. Not that he would hurt me. He had never once, not during our entire marriage, hurt me.
But I knew he had hurt other people, and that frightened me.
“Look, Sharada, I'm tired of going through lawyers. I want to settle this issue about the land. I want it over and done with, okay? Then I'll leave you alone. I promise.”
I started circling around him, heading for the car. “If you want to talk about it, you have your lawyer call my lawyer, Sunil. I don't want to see you. I don't want
to be around you anymore.”
I reached for the car door. Sunil grabbed my arm and yanked me close to him. “You're my wife, Sharada,” he said, clenching his teeth. “You will not speak to me this way.”
“I'm not your wife anymore, Sunil.” I reached into my purse, closing my fingers around my bottle of pepper spray. “You have no rights over me. Now leave me alone.”
Sunil glared at me for a long moment, not letting go of my arm. His fingers dug into me like daggers. “You've become a real pain in the neck,” he said, finally letting me go and shoving me away from him. “I knew that coming to America was a mistake. All of their Western ideas getting into your head, changing you. We should have stayed in Mumbai. We could have had a family. You always said you wanted children.”
“Not with you,” I said. “Not anymore.” I had wanted children once. Part of me still did. But that part of my life was behind me. At least as far as Sunil was concerned. I pressed the unlock button on my keychain remote, then yanked the car door open, carefully watching Sunil the entire time.
I got into the car, started it, and drove away before Sunil could say another word to me. He stood there in the parking lot, glaring at me as I drove off. I was only able to drive a couple of blocks before I had to pull over. My hands were shaking. My breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. I tried to take deep breaths to calm myself. It was a struggle not to break down completely into sobs, though a few tears managed to escape and slide down my cheeks.
Sunil had never hurt me, this was true. But there had been a time in our marriage when I never would have believed he could grab me like that or raise his voice to me. Ten years together had changed both of us. I had become more independent. Stronger. He had become more distant. And gotten himself involved in things I couldn't be a part of anymore.
I pulled some napkins out of the glove compartment and blew my nose. I grabbed a few more to wipe away my tears. Then I took a deep breath and centered myself. As soon as I was sure I could drive without my hands shaking, I pulled back into traffic and headed home. Though the entire way home, I kept checking my rear-view mirror to see if Sunil might be following me.
Chapter 3
I got home and locked all the doors and windows, just in case. Then I poured myself a cup of tea, and added a splash of cognac to help soothe my nerves. I put on some music and tried to relax, separating myself from the stresses Sunil had brought into my day.
I wasn't really worried about him coming to the house. He hadn't been back here since he moved out over a year ago, before we got divorced. But still, I couldn't banish my memory of the angry look on his face, and I could still feel his iron grip on my arm.
Looking around the house brought me nothing but memories of him. We'd bought this furniture together. Spent time picking it out and quibbling over the right upholstery for the sofa. Argued over the choice between paint or wallpaper for the living room walls. He was a part of this house, no matter whether I liked it or not.
When my attempts at relaxation failed, I tried to get some work done. Sitting at the computer was always a good way to distract myself. I spent some time going over some notes for a research project I was working on, then sorted through the junk in my email inbox.
I found about a dozen unanswered messages from the dating site I'd signed up for a month ago. I had thought that after a year being single, I might be ready to start dating again. After what I'd dealt with today, however, all thoughts of romance were banished from my mind.
I deleted all of the messages without bothering to read them. All of the messages I'd gotten before today hadn't been worth my time anyway. Half of the men who contacted me said that they weren't looking for a serious commitment, which was just a coded way of saying that they were just looking for sex. A few of the others had been boys half my age, some of them still in college! I spent enough time around immature college boys; I wasn't planning on becoming a cougar and trying to date one of them.
I emptied my trash folder and the inbox refreshed. When the page loaded, I saw another message from the dating site. I sighed and went to delete it, but paused when I saw the subject line:
When we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I stared for a long moment, reading the line again. I recognized it. It was a Sylvia Plath quote. I was stunned that any man on an online dating site would be quoting Sylvia Plath. I clicked on the email and started reading it, curious enough to see what this man had to say, despite the bad day I'd been having.
When I was a young man, I wanted everything in a relationship. I pictured myself with a loving marriage to a beautiful woman, a house full of kids, and a successful career. Everything was perfect. We never fought, our kids were perfectly well-behaved and got straight-A's, and we barbecued every Sunday in the summer.
I kept wanting everything in all of the years of my youth, and I was always disappointed. I'd set the bar so high that I could never let myself be happy. After awhile, I started wanting nothing, and I gave up on love.
A more tragic ending I couldn't have imagined. So I decided if wanting everything was too much, and wanting nothing was too little, then I needed to come up with a third alternative.
And here it is: just wanting one thing, and that's someone who knows what it's like to have wanted everything, to have wanted nothing, and who is ready to want just one thing with me. Maybe a cup of coffee, that's a simple thing to want. And it's something easy to get, without setting our sights so high that we can never reach the things that we want.
And maybe after coffee we'll find that we want something more, which would at least be better than the loneliness of wanting nothing.
So if maybe you want a simple thing, well, that's me. I'm a simple man. And it'd be nice to hear back from you.
Yours,
Harold
I re-read the email again, wondering who this man was. He spoke with such simple honesty that I felt a twinge in my chest, imagining the loneliness he might be going through. I knew what that loneliness felt like. And I knew just what he meant about wanting everything. It had been that way with Sunil.
We'd moved to this country because we had high hopes for the future, for a family and a place to raise our children, living simple lives. It hadn't worked out that way. And the dozen unread messages I'd just deleted moments ago showed that I had been dangerously close to wanting nothing, nothing at all.
I thought that would have been most tragic indeed.
I searched online for an appropriate quote of my own to lead off my response, then I wrote a short and simple reply:
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
Dear Harold,
I think once I wanted the same things you described. Maybe that's simply the folly of youth. I'm older now, and I certainly hope a little wiser, and I think I'm ready to want something simple. I'd be happy to share my wants with you over coffee, and maybe see if I might want something more.
Yours,
S
I never signed these messages with my full name. I'd heard too many horror stories about internet stalkers. I sent the message, then leaned back in my chair, sipping the last of my tea. My nerves had settled, and I'd managed to banish my fears about dealing with Sunil.
I'd call my lawyer in the morning and see how things were progressing with the dispute over the land. And maybe, I hoped, I'd get another email from the only true gentleman I'd ever yet found in the world of online dating.
Chapter 4
The next day, I went to work with a smile on my face. I walked into the library with a lightness in my step. Sylvia Plath watched me from the glass case by the entrance, and I gave her a wink on my way by.
“Someone's in a good mood,” Jessica said as I stepped behind the front desk. “What, did you meet someone last night?”
“Jessica!” I shook my head at her. Jessica was a good ten years younger than me, and a lot more open about cert
ain things.
“Well, you're obviously in a good mood about something.” She smiled at me, giving me a knowing look.
I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of my chair. “Maybe I am,” I said. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She knew me too well, and I was sure she was going to get it out of me, one way or the other.
“So are you going to spill?” she asked as she sorted through a stack of returned books. “Or do I need to keep guessing?”
I sat behind the desk and booted up the computer to go over my morning reports. “There's nothing to tell, yet. There might not be anything to tell at all.”
“But that means there might be something.” She lifted a stack of books onto a cart, still watching me for any sign of what had me in a good mood.
“Maybe.” I smiled, refusing to make eye contact.
“Uh-huh.” She shook her head at me as she wheeled the cart around the desk. “All right, I'll let you off the hook for now. But you're gonna spill!” She pointed an admonishing finger at me as she rolled the cart away to get started on the returns.
I was busy with my reports for awhile, stopping every now and then to assist a student who needed help finding a book. Even though the university gave all the students a seminar on using the library's computer system to search for what they needed, they all seemed to come to me for help. I was never sure if they had all simply forgotten what they learned in the seminar, or if they were all lazy. Probably a combination of the two.
It wasn't even like they had to know how to use a card catalog, since everything was computerized. Kids these days were so spoiled.
I was settling back into my seat to get back to work after the umpteenth interruption when a voice said, “Morning, Sharada.”
I looked up and saw the lumberjack standing there with a book.
