behind her, and I stand to follow, wait for her to open the door. Now we’re the only two in the entire library—us and a civilization’s worth of books. A full bin of returned books sits under the slot at the door. She gives it a quick once-over, hits the lights, makes her way to the circulation desk.
“So what brings you to our fine institution at this early hour?” she wants to know. She walks ahead of me and I let her, embarrassed to be looked at from behind. I’m dressed for work, after all. Crud clothes.
“A date,” I tell her.
“A date?” she asks. “Or a year?”
I blush. “The second.”
She’s moved around to her side of the desk and tossed her keys into her bag. Now she replaces her shades with her reading glasses and rebuckles the strap of one shoe. “Fashion,” she says, “is killing.” Shestands up straight and tests the shoe. Her whole skirt dances away from her, returns. She belongs, I’m thinking, on Fifth Avenue. Anywhere but here, and most definitely not alone.
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell her, and though I don’t mean much by the comment, she stops and gives me a long, steady look, head to toe. Me—grubbed-out me—in my work boots and khakis, my worn-out T-shirt, my Danny BU cap, which hides my hair.
“You could know, Katie, if you wanted to. You could wear anything well.”
I look at myself, rub at a spot on my shirt, push a stray strand of hair from my face. “You’re an unusual librarian,” I finally tell her.
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “I’ve heard that before.”
“I mean, you’re all dressed up, and your audience is books.” I bow toward the shelves, shift in my work boots. One creaks. I turn back around to find her studying me, two S lines lying on their sides across her brow.
“I wasn’t planning on being a librarian,” she says at last. “Life doesn’t always go in the preplanned direction.”
“You weren’t?” I plant my elbows on the desk that runs between us and fit my chin into my hands. She’s a mystery, too, this Ms. McDermott. “What happened?” I say. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Someone broke my heart,” she says, simply, no details. “Books saved me, so I became a librarian.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, no, Katie. Healing takes time. New directions do. It takes a long time, too, to return to yourself.”
“But do you love being a librarian?”
“I do.”
I nod, wishing I could ask her so much more about herself—about who broke her heart, who changed her life, if she’s all through with healing, if anybody ever is, if she’ll ever fall in love again. But there are some lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and people’s secrets aretheirs alone until their secrets are set free.
“You mentioned a year?” she says now.
“Nineteen fifty-four.”
“Of course,” she says.
“But I have a day now, too, Ms. McDermott. A month. September 10, 1954.”
“You are one heck of a spy,” she says, coming toward me, high in her shoes. Her skirt makes the sound of sheets drying in the wind.
“You think you can help?”
“There are places to start,” she says. “Let’s go find out what we can.” She heads for the microfilm room and I follow, and when we arrive, she snaps on a light, reaches high for a blue box marked MAIN LINE NOW, and slides it toward her, popping open the lid as she does. From the box she pulls a wide brown strip of film and begins to thread the film through the reader. When she presses a button, something snaps, and now pages and pages of Main Line Now are flashing by.
“These are ghastly things,” she says, meaning the reader, which zips and moans as the film speeds through.
“Kind of scary,” I agree.
“They do the trick, though, when nothing else does.” As she speaks, the film edges up to 1954, and now that she’s taken the century this far, she slows the reader’s speed. We’re through May, through June, through July and August. Ms. McDermott switches to the
“So what brings you to our fine institution at this early hour?” she wants to know. She walks ahead of me and I let her, embarrassed to be looked at from behind. I’m dressed for work, after all. Crud clothes.
“A date,” I tell her.
“A date?” she asks. “Or a year?”
I blush. “The second.”
She’s moved around to her side of the desk and tossed her keys into her bag. Now she replaces her shades with her reading glasses and rebuckles the strap of one shoe. “Fashion,” she says, “is killing.” Shestands up straight and tests the shoe. Her whole skirt dances away from her, returns. She belongs, I’m thinking, on Fifth Avenue. Anywhere but here, and most definitely not alone.
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell her, and though I don’t mean much by the comment, she stops and gives me a long, steady look, head to toe. Me—grubbed-out me—in my work boots and khakis, my worn-out T-shirt, my Danny BU cap, which hides my hair.
“You could know, Katie, if you wanted to. You could wear anything well.”
I look at myself, rub at a spot on my shirt, push a stray strand of hair from my face. “You’re an unusual librarian,” I finally tell her.
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “I’ve heard that before.”
“I mean, you’re all dressed up, and your audience is books.” I bow toward the shelves, shift in my work boots. One creaks. I turn back around to find her studying me, two S lines lying on their sides across her brow.
“I wasn’t planning on being a librarian,” she says at last. “Life doesn’t always go in the preplanned direction.”
“You weren’t?” I plant my elbows on the desk that runs between us and fit my chin into my hands. She’s a mystery, too, this Ms. McDermott. “What happened?” I say. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Someone broke my heart,” she says, simply, no details. “Books saved me, so I became a librarian.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, no, Katie. Healing takes time. New directions do. It takes a long time, too, to return to yourself.”
“But do you love being a librarian?”
“I do.”
I nod, wishing I could ask her so much more about herself—about who broke her heart, who changed her life, if she’s all through with healing, if anybody ever is, if she’ll ever fall in love again. But there are some lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and people’s secrets aretheirs alone until their secrets are set free.
“You mentioned a year?” she says now.
“Nineteen fifty-four.”
“Of course,” she says.
“But I have a day now, too, Ms. McDermott. A month. September 10, 1954.”
“You are one heck of a spy,” she says, coming toward me, high in her shoes. Her skirt makes the sound of sheets drying in the wind.
“You think you can help?”
“There are places to start,” she says. “Let’s go find out what we can.” She heads for the microfilm room and I follow, and when we arrive, she snaps on a light, reaches high for a blue box marked MAIN LINE NOW, and slides it toward her, popping open the lid as she does. From the box she pulls a wide brown strip of film and begins to thread the film through the reader. When she presses a button, something snaps, and now pages and pages of Main Line Now are flashing by.
“These are ghastly things,” she says, meaning the reader, which zips and moans as the film speeds through.
“Kind of scary,” I agree.
“They do the trick, though, when nothing else does.” As she speaks, the film edges up to 1954, and now that she’s taken the century this far, she slows the reader’s speed. We’re through May, through June, through July and August. Ms. McDermott switches to the
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