As a final touch, Star painted a sign and William nailed it above the door to the library. It said: Our Bookhenge.
There was a steady stream of children—and books—traveling through the O. Henry Café that December. While the rest of Mercy chained holiday wreaths to their doors and cursed contrary Christmas tree lights, Bookhenge exploded in a spirit of giving. No one kept track of the books; no one supervised what someone else read; no one mutilated the books they didn’t like or agree with; no one plucked the words they found distasteful from the pages with razor blades. There was something pristine about the library Antigone built, something that shone like a beacon that child after child followed to a new land.
And each time Antigone watched a child walk out the door, clutching a book to his or her chest, she felt like throwing her arms in the air and whirling around until she was dizzy. Her happiness was heady—all mixed up with the children’s joy, her reluctant evolution into a librarian, and the satisfaction of outmaneuvering Irene. “Take that, you pie thrower,” she said.
Chapter 19
Food for Thought
NOTHING WAS GOING AS Irene Crump had planned. The members of the Mercy Study Club, the school’s temporary librarians, grumbled about the boredom, the hours, the rudeness of the few students who still used the school library. Most of the students preferred Antigone’s library, which was another thorn festering in Irene’s side. “That detestable library is undermining everything,” Irene told her husband.
“It’s a classic example of women making a fuss over something that isn’t of the slightest importance,” Arthur said, snapping open the paper to the sports section and pushing aside a ruffled pillow. He was finishing breakfast at the kitchen banquette.
“Thanks for your support.” Irene made a face at him.
Not looking up, he said, “What did you expect? It’s forbidden fruit. You and your lists have made those books as tempting as free porn.”
Irene puffed up, stiffened her spine, and was about to set her husband straight when the phone rang. It was a club member in hysterics because she found a book on the banned list under her daughter’s bed along with a well-worn baseball mitt, a slice of pizza, and a rhinestone tiara. “I was looking for dirty underwear and found a dirty book,” said the angry club member, who then lowered her voice. “It’s that Blume book, for gawdsakes. Forever. I thought we got rid of that one. My twelve-year-old baby has been reading about birth control and masturbation, Irene. What good is what we’re doing if they’re getting this stuff anyway?”
Irene had already had one loud and unpleasant discussion with Superintendent Mitchell about Antigone and her books. The man was useless in a real crisis, as most men were, in Irene’s opinion. He hid behind school policy and boundaries: “What can I do, Irene? My authority ends with school property.”
Irene was so tired of dealing with idiots, as Arthur put it. Her days were consumed with reassuring those who agreed with her and battling those who did not. Gazing around her, at her beautiful kitchen, the room she loved, with everything exactly where she wanted it, she wished she could stay here forever and never step foot in another library or handle another book or talk with another “concerned citizen.” Her kitchen was an appliance paradise with all the latest culinary gadgets plus small custom-made refrigerators strategically concealed in drawers and cabinets so Alice could grab a juice box on her way to soccer or Arthur could pluck a carton of cream for his morning coffee without leaving the banquette. The walk-in pantry was so large that Irene often forgot what was in it. One day while organizing the pantry, Cecily discovered nine bottles of ketchup. She heard Cecily mutter, “What does anyone need with nine bottles of ketchup?”
In her kitchen, butcher block cutting boards slid from hidden places so that wherever she was, Irene could chop up a storm. On that Saturday morning, she needed every one of them. Arthur had informed her over breakfast that someone had made an offer on their house, on this sunny, beautiful kitchen; on her darling solarium; on her shower with the gold fixtures that bombarded and massaged her with hot water from every angle.
“I’m going to build you the house of your dreams, honey,” Arthur said full of smiles.
“This is the house of my dreams.” Irene looked at him.
“We’re going to make a bundle off this, Irene. I’m telling you that Japanese couple is gaga over the place.” Arthur sniggered. “They didn’t even haggle. I threw out some wild, you-wouldn’t-believe price and they bit. Some people just have too much money.”
“But I love this house,” Irene said.
“It’s just a house!”
“It’s our home.”
“I’ve got some great ideas for the new place. How about a fountain in the foyer? Like one of those Italian villas with statues of angels. We could even put real goddamn fish in the fountain. What are they called?”
“Koi.”
“Yeah, koi.”
As her happy husband banged out the back door, headed for the golf course, Irene began pulling vegetables from the crisper.
WHEN ARTHUR RETURNED FOUR hours later, Irene was still slicing and dicing—and arguing with Art Junior. The counters were piled with chopped lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, squash, peppers, radishes, cucumbers, and onions. Everywhere Irene looked was salad out of control.
Still, she attacked more vegetables. Her professional chef’s knife probably could have sliced lead pipe, so bell peppers were no match for it. As she sliced and slashed with fury, Art Junior turned to his father and whined, “The Jeep doesn’t have any power, Dad. I’m gonna take it in to Sam.”
“Like you need more get up and go,” Irene muttered.
Arthur snagged a pepper slice and popped it in his mouth. “All right, son. Put it on the tab.”
“I don’t want him taking the Jeep to Sam.”
“Why not?” Arthur stared at Irene, shocked. “Sam takes care of all our vehicles.”
“Not anymore,” Irene said.
Art Junior stole a radish from the cutting board. “She’s mad about this library thing. I think it’s dumb. Who cares about some old books? Sam’s the best,” he said, ignoring his mother. “I’ll take it to Sam.”
“You do and you’re grounded.” Irene whacked a head of cabbage in half. “Again.”
“Are you nuts?” Art Junior exclaimed. “Dad, do something!”
Arthur nodded toward the door. “I’ll handle your mother.”
Art Junior and his father exchanged smug looks.
“I saw that!” Irene said.
“Women!” Art Junior grumbled, grabbing a soda and slamming the back door.
Arthur pulled a Michelob from one of the refrigerators. “Irene, you don’t understand about machinery. Sam’s got a sixth sense about mechanical stuff. I’m not putting all my equipment in the hands of an idiot, just because you got a bee in your bonnet.”
“And I’m telling you, if you so much as take a riding lawnmower to Sam’s Garage, I’ll-I’ll . . .” Irene exploded, grabbing armloads of chopped vegetables and flinging them at her husband. Arthur froze then slowly pulled a julienne radish from the top of his head. He watched her warily as she waved the chef’s knife in front of his nose. Finally, it too rocketed from her hand and stuck in a nearby chopping board, point down, vibrating. He winced.
“And I am not leaving my home, Arthur Patrick Crump. But you can. You can do whatever you want,” she said, “but you do it alone.”
Arthur dropped the can of beer in the sink. It sprayed all over him. “How’d we get from salad to divorce?”
“Somewhere at the radishes, I think.” Irene lifted her nose and waltzed from the room.
Chapter 20
Whisperers Win
THE WOMAN BESIDE ANTIGONE panted, winked at her, and kept on panting. She was young; this was her first baby, too. Her husband coached her as if he were channeling his inner Vince Lombardi, barking out encouragement about winning and scoring and working hard—and all he had to do was hold her hand. She smiled at
Antigone.
“Having a football player?” Antigone asked between pants.
“Quarterback, he says.” The woman nodded toward the man behind her.
Her husband frowned. “Focus here, darling. Remember, we’re going for the biggest touchdown in life.”
The woman and Antigone exchanged grins.
This was the weekly Lamaze class. It epitomized how difficult—and complicated—life had become for Antigone and Sam since Antigone opened Bookhenge. There were couples who approached them at the refreshment table and offered support for Antigone and the library. And then there were couples who refused to make eye contact and made a point of distancing themselves, edging their exercise mats away from Antigone and Sam. Even the leader, a bubbly young nurse from the hospital, felt the tension; she was decidedly flat by the time the parents-to-be rolled up their mats and stepped out into the January night.
“Everyone be sure to come next week,” called the leader as they trudged out. “We’re watching a movie—real footage of an actual birth. It’s a blockbuster.”
Walking into the house, Sam flung his baseball cap on the kitchen counter. “Well, that was fun,” he said sarcastically. Seeing Antigone floundering to get her arms out of her coat, he helped her. “Stop struggling.”
Antigone huffed. Every stitch of clothing—pulling it on and taking it off—was an ordeal for a body eight months pregnant. Her stomach bumped against Sam as he gently divested her of one of his old winter coats, an ugly example of outerwear that was the only thing she could button. It smelled of him, and when all of this became too crazy, she stuck her nose against the soft wool and inhaled great whiffs of sanity, safety, and Sam.
“I can’t help it that people are small minded,” she groaned and slowly lowered her aching back into a kitchen chair. “These are people I’ve known ever since I moved to Mercy. Friends. Customers.”
Sam warmed two cups in the microwave—instant coffee for him and hot chocolate for her. Antigone absently rubbed her back. The phone rang. As he reached for it, Antigone said, “Why bother?”
It was the usual—heavy breathing, whispers in the night, ugly words. “You’re the pervert, buddy,” Sam said, punching the off button.
Ryder rolled in and slouched against the counter. “Another hater?”
The obscene calls had started shortly after the school board meeting, and now they received at least one a night, sometimes more. Afraid the calls would further upset Antigone, Sam and Ryder leaped to answer the phone at home. William took all calls at the café.
“Nut jobs.” Sam pushed the hot chocolate toward Antigone and collapsed in the chair opposite her.
“You’re probably talking about our friends,” Antigone pointed out.
“Not anymore.”
Antigone played with the hot chocolate, stirring and not sipping. She rubbed her back. “There are a lot people who agree with me, you know. They stop me on the street or in the café and tell me so. But it seems harder to remember them than to forget the ones who hate me.”
“People don’t hate you,” Sam said. “They’re just . . . caught up in all this.”
“Haters get off on hate,” Ryder said.
“They’re afraid of what they don’t understand,” Antigone said, “of changing things.”
Sam leaned toward her. “Honey, is it worth all this?” Antigone’s hand fell from her back. Across the kitchen, she felt Ryder tense.
She stared at Sam. “What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m losing customers, Tigg.” Sam sipped his coffee. “Arthur has pulled all of his vehicles, the trucks, the backhoes, even the family cars. He represents a hell of a lot of business for us. He owns one of the biggest construction fleets in this part of the state.”
Antigone slumped in her chair. “Oh, no.”
“He didn’t want to do it, he said, but Irene’s on a rampage. She threatened to divorce him if he didn’t take his business elsewhere. And don’t kid yourself. He’s an influential man. He can shut us down with a few words to his golf buddies.”
“Damn that Irene.”
“And I bet if you asked Earthly and William, business is off at the outlet and café, too.”
“I never dreamed . . .,” she said.
Sam reached for her hand. “Arthur implied he’d be back in a shot if you cooled it.”
“Cooled it?”
“Got rid of all these books, and stopped lending them to people.”
“Close the library?” Antigone’s eyes rounded in shock. “You’re siding with them?” she said, untangling her hand from his.
She looked at Ryder. He walked over and touched her shoulder. “Don’t do it. Who cares what those bastards think?”
“Stay out of this, Ryder,” Sam growled.
“She loves that place,” Ryder argued.
“I’ve got to think about Antigone’s health and our baby. I can’t take care of them if the bank forecloses on the garage and I don’t have a job.”
“And the kids depend on it,” Ryder said.
“Ryder!” Sam pushed away from the table and rose. Ryder stepped back. “Leave her alone. This is family business.”
“And I’m not family,” Ryder nodded in understanding.
Antigone flinched. “That’s not true. Sam!”
Ryder stilled. When he stood up to Sam, Antigone realized he had grown since coming here. She watched them, and it seemed, to Antigone, that in this sudden face-off, Ryder was hardening before her very eyes. When the transformation was complete, that stranger she hated, City Ryder, was back. “Spit it out, Mr. Big Shot Mechanic,” he whispered, steel coating every word.
“You’re just a guy passing through.” Sam glared at the boy. “Look her in the eye, and tell her you haven’t thought about leaving.”
“Ryder?”
Ryder avoided Antigone’s stare.
“She must have seemed like easy pickings for someone like you,” Sam sneered.
“Someone like me?”
“A user. You saw a good deal, and you grabbed it.”
“I was doin’ fine before she came along, and I can do it again.”
“You’ve grown soft, Ryder.” Sam nodded toward the door. “You couldn’t make it out there.”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s your response to everything, isn’t it, Runaway Ryder?”
Antigone grabbed Sam’s arm. “Sam, stop it!”
“I don’t have to put up with this shit.” Ryder whirled, stomped to the door, and grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall. “I’m outta here.”
“Good!” Sam shouted.
Antigone struggled to stand. She pushed against the table. “Ryder, wait!”
Ryder stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at her. “Antigone, I . . .” And then he was gone.
The slam of the kitchen door was like a shot, and Antigone raced to the door. Flinging it open, she started after him only to be held back by Sam’s arms wrapped around her. “No!” she cried, struggling. “Go after him.”
Ryder was no longer in sight. The cold January night had swallowed him up. Sam tugged her back into the house and shut the door. “It’s freezing out there. You don’t even have a coat on.”
“We can’t just let him go.” Antigone turned in his arms, fists balled against his chest. “Sam, please.”
“He’ll be back.”
She couldn’t believe Ryder was gone. Somehow since that day on a deserted road when he’d chewed her out for trusting him, he’d become hers. He’d become family, as much as the child kicking inside her. She pushed Sam away. When Sam reached for her again, pleading, “Tigg,” she held her hand up.
“Don’t touch me.”
She turned away and lumbered down the hall and up the stairs to bed.
Moments later, she appeared at the top of the stairs. She threw a pillow and blanket down at her husband. They glared at each other. “So that’s the way it’s going to be?” Sam shouted. Antigone folded her arms above
her big belly. He hurled the linen toward the couch and pointed a finger at her. “You’re gonna miss me. You don’t like to sleep alone.”
“I’ll manage!”
And she did, until the early morning, when she shuffled downstairs, wrapped an afghan around her, and settled down on the floor by the couch. She laid her head next to Sam’s. She was almost back to sleep when she felt herself being lifted, carried up the stairs, and tucked gently into bed. She relaxed into Sam’s warmth. She felt a breath near her ear, one word: “Sorry.”
Chapter 21
Wish Upon a Penny Fork
RYDER FELL QUICKLY BACK into old patterns of survival that had once been second nature. He sought the shadows. He walked in silence and listened with senses so alive he was buzzing inside. He avoided the company of humans. But he was uneasy living that way now. Something was missing. Some edge he used to have was gone, and he lived in terror of screwing up, of looking the wrong stranger in the eye, of falling asleep in the wrong place at the wrong time. He felt unprepared for unpredictability. And on the wild side, the unplanned was the only constant in life.
He’d been on the road for four days. After leaving Antigone’s, he hitchhiked south seeking to escape the numbing cold—in the air and in his heart. He’d failed to plan his grand exit well; he had not snatched up gloves or a hat as he blasted from the warm house. He hadn’t taken any of his stuff: the seashell Star had given him, the book bag Antigone had bought him, his phony birth certificate. He had gone over the scene in his mind again and again. He should never have let Sam goad him into losing it. Anger was a stupid emotion. And if there was anything Ryder hated, it was being stupid. Stupid people didn’t last long in his world.
January was cold even in the South. He hadn’t expected that. And he was hungry. He kept to the back roads, gravel and dirt trails like the ones where Antigone had taught him to drive. He accepted rides from poor black farmers in rusted-out old pickups. He trusted them more than the rednecks who reminded him of Art Crump Junior barreling through the countryside as if they owned the place. He watched them from the woods, holding his breath, as they spit gravel and drunken laughter, flying down the road.
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