Constance Schofield used the five-minute ride to the Old Wachusett Public Library to turn the page of her mood. Connie enjoyed her job, loved the people with whom she worked, and the thought of spending the next eight hours doing what she loved was enough to shelve away most of last night and this morning into the closed stacks of her mind. Lately, that ability had become vital to Connie preserving her sanity.
She carried her purse and two tote bags filled with paperback and hardcover novels, holiday and home living magazines, a few copies of Publisher’s Weekly and Library Journal, a budget report for the trustees, lunch, and a work notebook. She unlocked the front door to the library, stepped inside, disarmed the alarm, reset the lock, and closed the door.
Straight through a set of glass doors was the adult section of the library. Down the stairs to the right was the children’s section. Connie checked the overnight book drop and found a half-dozen books along with a couple magazines and three albums (how many times did she have to remind the patrons that the book drop was for books and magazines, not albums?) which she managed to gather up and carry to the circulation desk on the other side of the glass doors. It wasn’t really a desk, more like a counter, but circulation desk sounded more library-ish. She placed the books and magazines and records onto the desk, removed her own reading materials from one of the tote bags, and placed them next to the stack. If she didn’t get to them, either Margaret or Pauline would check them in, and Connie was perfectly fine with that. She didn’t lord it over her employees, but it was a perk of the job she wasn’t afraid to use every now and then.
She passed through the work office across from the circulation desk and continued to the library director’s office at the rear. Furnished with a desk and swivel chair, two wooden chairs opposite the desk, one low table with a coffee maker and typewriter, a couple bookshelves, and a single coat hook on the back of the door, it was pragmatic, utilitarian, and isolated Connie from her coworkers and the patrons. She spent as little time in it as possible. She dropped the handbags onto one of the chairs, hung her coat on the hook, and headed back to the main section.
The library didn’t open for another forty-five minutes, but Connie liked to arrive at least an hour early to get a jump on the day. With the lights off and the natural light filtering through the front windows, she liked to walk through the book stacks, making sure everything was in order before the public arrived. It wasn’t quite a golden moment, but it was a time of day she definitely enjoyed. The quiet of the building, the morning light casting shadows between the rows of bookshelves, the particular scents of the books and the glossy magazine covers and the vinyl albums, it was all so comfortable for Connie. Ever since she could remember, the library, any library, had been one of her favorite places.
She had her mother to thank for that. When Connie had entered the first grade, her mother started taking her to the Old Wachusett Public Library, though at that time the library had been housed in a different building only a block up the road from its present location. When the library got too big it moved to its current location, the former building now used for the Kaine Senior Center. Connie’s mother had done her job of passing on the love of books from one generation to the next. Connie used to love checking out the small red and blue hardcover books about Kit Carson and Billy the Kid and Buffalo Bill. The books were small enough for her little hands to carry without her mother’s help. She had cut her reading teeth on those romanticized tales of the Old West, and had been hooked ever since, reading just about anything she could get her hands on. Although her mother was partial to the so-called classics—Dickens, Shakespeare, Steinbeck, Danielle Steele (everyone has her guilty pleasures, Constance)—Connie never saw the value in separating books into classics and general reading and genre fiction. If it had a good story that propelled her from one page to another, and those pages were peopled with believable characters she cared about, then the book was a classic regardless of whether it was written in 17th century England or 20th century America.
That philosophy motivated Connie to do everything she could to foster a love of reading among the younger generation. She knew that most high-schoolers weren’t interested in reading the books on the summer high school reading lists. Truthfully—she would never voice this opinion to the teachers who submitted their reading lists to her—she couldn’t blame them. No teenager in her right mind wanted to spend summer afternoons reading about Ethan Frome’s bleak existence, the Old Man’s struggle at sea with a fish, or Job’s terrible trials at the hand of God. Each of these works may have a certain artistic merit to it—even Ethan Frome, to a lesser extent—but it was wishful thinking if the teachers thought that most high school students were reading them. If they were, then Cliff’s Notes would be out of business.
For her part, Connie saw to it every summer that there was a section at the front of the library set aside for the kinds of books she thought most high-schoolers—especially boys, seeing how the girls seemed to like reading on their own—would be interested in reading: horror, science fiction, westerns, and a few superthrillers for the more literate among them. She would stock up on Stephen King, Robert Bloch, Peter Benchley, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, John le Carré, Robert Ludlum, Louis L’Amour (a favorite amongst the high school boys, due mostly in part to the shortness of his books), among others. That section of the library always turned out to be the busiest section during the summer months, and Connie was proud of that.
This was Connie’s fifteenth year working at the library, seventh as its director. Her first job had been at OWPL when she was a sophomore in high school. She had worked as a page shelving books, keeping things in order, helping out at the circulation desk now and then, until she graduated from high school, whereupon she attended Smith College where she worked part-time in the library there. Four years later, in 1959, she graduated from Smith and took her degree to New York and found a job with a small publishing house. At the time it had seemed like her dream job. Reading and editing books, talking with authors and developing their talents, dining out at fine restaurants, going to the theater, meeting and marrying David, getting pregnant and giving birth to their twins Joshua and Julian. Connie had had it all in New York.
Except for one thing. She hadn’t had small-town New England. As much as she enjoyed the publishing job and the nightlife and raising her family in a nice New York suburb, Connie missed the sultry August neighborhood block parties awash in the aromas of sizzling hamburgers and hotdogs on backyard grills; the sound of cool October evenings as children ran through piles of dry, crunchy leaves, bare branches creaking above them in a light breeze, all of it backlit in brilliant sunsets; the freezing January Sunday mornings spent shoveling out neighbors after getting eighteen inches of snow the night before, then spending the rest of the afternoon sipping hot apple cider and reading the Sunday paper or curling up with a book and a quilt while the neighborhood kids built snowmen in their front yards and engaged in snowball fights up and down the street.
Eventually, the simple pleasure of reading books and spending time with family and neighbors won out over the often cut-throat business of buying and selling potential bestsellers. With David’s full support, Connie quit the publishing business and applied at various libraries in the New England area, hoping to land a job close to her hometown of Old Wachusett. She considered it her good fortune when a position opened at OWPL. Financially, one could’ve looked at it as a major step backward. Emotionally, it was a giant leap forward.
Connie opened the window blinds at the front of the library opposite the ‘New Fiction’ and ‘New Nonfiction’ shelves. She straightened the periodicals on the horizontal flip shelves behind which were concealed older issues, aligned the books on the New Releases shelves, changed the date on the date due punch-out machine at the circulation desk, walked through the rest of the adult section checking for appearance, and took a tour of the children’s section downstairs. Connie had a pretty good handle on most every facet of the Old Wachusett Public Library. It was her domain.
On her way back up the stairs from the children’s section she heard someone working the lock on the front door. Margaret Whitman, one of the library assistants who was also one of Connie’s closest friends, was outside juggling a stack of books, a purse, and her Partridge Family lunch box. Margaret was in her fifties, but often followed the leading of the sixteen-year-old girl that lived inside her body and dominated her thinking. Connie hurried to get to the door to unlock it before Margaret dropped everything, but the door opened just as she reached it.
“Brr, it is cold out here.”
“Here.” Connie reached for the purse and lunchbox. “Let me help you.”
“Bless you, my dear.” Margaret didn’t act like she was in her fifties, but there were times she sounded like she was in her eighties. She stepped inside, stomping the snow off her shoes.
“Ever hear of a wonderful little thing called a tote bag?”
Margaret smirked. “Believe it or not, I used to own such a thing, but it seemed too old for me. A tote bag. What, I can’t carry a few books?” Margaret followed Connie into the library and dropped the stack of books onto the front desk next to the one’s Connie placed there earlier. “Glad to see I’m not the only municipal employee who hogs all the library’s books.”
“Margaret, that’s about two weeks’ worth of books and magazines I returned. You check out a dozen books every Friday and come back Monday with most of them read.” Connie shook her head. “You need to get a life. Or a man. Which, if you had a man, you’d then have a life.”
“Honey child, I’ve had myself many a man, thank you very much.”
“Yes, well….” Connie handed the purse to Margaret but held the lunchbox away from her like a younger sister teasing an older sibling. “You also need a new lunchbox. You do know the Partridge Family isn’t quite as popular as they used to be? Especially among the…how shall I say it…” Connie drummed her fingers on her chin and cast a sideways glance at Margaret.
“Hmph.” Margaret snatched the tin box out of Connie’s hand. “How’s about you don’t say anything at all, my dearest Constance.”
“…the older generation.” Connie smirked.
“Honey, it’s not the entire family I’m interested in. It’s this cutie right here.” Margaret pointed at David Cassidy on the front of the box, whom she kissed with exaggerated smooching sounds while walking into the office.
Connie shook her head. “You are borderline psychotic.” She turned on the light in the office and took down the current work schedule that was posted next to the time clock.
Margaret ignored Connie’s comment and opened the closet door adjacent to the time clock. “Let me guess. New work schedule.” She hung her coat and purse on one of the dozen hooks and carefully placed her lunchbox on the top shelf. Checking herself in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the door, Margaret straightened her artificially colored blonde hair, smoothed out her yellow sweater, and tugged at her tan slacks to get them to stop clinging to her plump legs. She closed the door and turned to Connie, hands by her sides, palms out, eyebrows raised.
Connie nodded her approval before turning down the hall to her office. “Beverly called me Saturday morning and Alan called yesterday afternoon,” she said over her shoulder. Inside the office she raised her voice. “They both have a nasty cold or the flu or whatever it is that’s making the rounds.” She emerged from the office waving a sheet of paper above her head. “So, yes, new work schedule.”
“Sweetie, ‘tisn’t a problem with me. I could use the extra dough. Assuming you’ve loaded me up with additional hours.”
Connie hung the new schedule and tilted her head at her long-time friend. “You need extra dough?” Connie placed her hands on her hips and grinned. “That can mean only one thing.” Her eyebrows rose accompanied by an eager grin. She clasped her hands together, a schoolgirl awaiting the revelation of a secret. “Dare I ask?”
“Honey, I would if I were you.” Margaret smiled and picked up a stack of new books off the processing cart and carried them to the circulation desk. Connie followed her, hands planted firmly on hips. On the other side of the circulation desk Margaret picked up each book, read the back cover and inside flaps, presumably to see if she wanted to check any of them out before the general population had a chance to get their hands on them. Apparently not interested in any of them, she inserted bookmarks imprinted with the library’s hours inside the front covers.
Connie waited until Margaret was done. “Well?”
“Well what, my dear?” Margaret shrugged, her hands resting on the stack of new books.
Connie dropped her hands to her sides and issued a mock sigh.
“Oh. That.” Margaret scooped up the books and brought them to the New Releases shelf at the front of the library. She slotted them into their places, making a show of concentrating on what she was doing. The corners of her mouth curled up, but she did not look at Connie.
“Ahem.” Connie glared at her from the circulation desk, hands spread on the counter, fingers drumming.
Margaret could not keep the straight face any longer. She laughed as she shelved the last of the books, then looked directly at Connie. “My dear, you haven’t asked yet. Have you?”
The fingers stopped drumming, but Connie’s eyes kept glaring. “Listen to me, you incorrigible little you-know-what.”
Margaret gasped and brought a hand to her chest. “You-know-what? My, the language that spews out of that potty mouth of yours.”
Connie marched around the desk, exaggerating every movement. “As the director of this library, as your direct supervisor, as your boss, I will fire your sweet little patootie if you ever willfully withhold information from me that bears directly on your personal life, whether I ask for it directly or not.”
Margaret turned to Connie, mouth agape.
Connie raised an eyebrow. “Is that clear?”
Margaret closed her mouth, nodded, then clasped her hands and bowed her head. She muttered, “All you had to do was ask, Miss Bossy Pants.”
A moment passed. Margaret raised her head. Laughter sprang forth from each of them, naturally and comfortably, as refreshing to Connie as a cold glass of lemonade on a sweltering summer day.
Margaret checked the clock on the wall. “We’ve got a few minutes before Pauline gets here.” They moved to a pair of chairs across from the magazine shelves. Connie crossed her legs and leaned toward Margaret, elbows on the armrests, chin resting on her clasped hands. Margaret smiled. “I met a man.” Connie tilted her head and rolled her eyes. “Honey,” Margaret said, resting a hand on Connie’s arm, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s different this time. He isn’t a David Cassidy knock-off. He’s the real deal. Responsible, mature, and, get this, he’s actually got a job. A real job. You could even call it a career.”
“Wow. A career even.” Connie leaned back and crossed her arms, assuming the posture of a mother interrogating her daughter after the revelation of a first boyfriend. “Mature.” She nodded her head. “What does that mean, exactly? That he’s more than half your age?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. A regular Joan Rivers you are, my dear. It means he’s my age.” Margaret paused. “Give or take a few years.” She quickly added, “Suffice to say he’s older than all the other men I’ve dated, which should make you happy.”
Connie nodded, keeping her eyes level at Margaret. “Dating? Is that what you call it?” She unfolded her arms and rested them on the armrests. “More like one-night-standing, don’t you think?”
“Well,” Margaret said, clearing her throat and rising from the chair. “I suppose one could put it that way. If one were so inclined.” She winked at Connie on her way to the album rack.
“Name?” Connie turned in the chair, one arm draped over the back, to face Margaret who was flipping through the album collection, apparently ignoring Connie’s question. “Hello? Mr. Maturity—a name? Or do you just say, ‘hey, you.’”
Margaret held up an album and rolled her eyes. “Yes, he has a name. It’s John.”
“John...?” Connie motioned with her hand for Margaret to come out with the rest of it.
“Smith. John Smith.” Margaret slid the album back into its place.
“John Smith.” Connie pushed her shoulders back and smoothed out her slacks.
“Did I mention he’s also part Indian? I think he said Nipmuc. Or was it Algonquin?”
“Indian.” Connie cleared her throat. “You expect me to believe you’ve finally met a man—a mature man with a career—and he’s part Indian, and his name is…John Smith. Is that correct?”
Margaret flashed a smile, nodded, and continued flipping through the albums.
“When and where did you meet ‘John Smith’? Over the weekend at a powwow at the local McDonald’s?”
“For your information, Mrs. Supervisor, I met him a few weeks ago at the movies. He sat in the row in front of me.” Connie raised her eyebrows. “Corvette Summer.” Connie opened her mouth to speak but Margaret beat her to it. “I know, I know. Can I help it if I like Mark Hamill and he likes Annie Potts?”
“It’s not that. I can’t believe you kept this a secret from me for two whole weeks. How dare you.”
“Honey, it’s like I said. All you had to do was ask. Besides, I wanted to make sure this one was for real before blabbing it to everyone. You know, didn’t want to jump the gun, so to speak.” Margaret winked.
Connie stood and shook her head. “I’ll bet his gun’s already been jumped.”
“My dear, would you kindly dispense with the junior-high innuendos? It really doesn’t become you.” Margaret winked. “Besides, enough about me. What about you? How was your weekend?” Margaret flipped through a few more albums, stopped, and looked at Connie who was now standing next to the rotating paperback stands. “Things better between you and David?”
Connie slowly shook her head. “Worse.” She twirled one of the racks, checking authors’ last names. “David is more irritable than ever. He argues with me and Joshua about the most insignificant things. Like last night, which ended up spilling over to this morning.” Connie sighed. “Josh and I can’t seem to do anything right by him. He’s…he’s becoming abusive.”
Margaret had Fleetwood Mac’s album Rumours in hand when she shot Connie a look at that last word.
“No, no, not like that.” Connie spun the K rack of books. “Not physically. Verbally.”
Margaret placed Rumours on top of the row of records, let out a breath, and folded her hands on top of the album.
“Margaret, don’t worry.” Connie stopped turning the rack and looked to her friend. “Really, don’t. If it was more, I’d tell you. Believe me, I would.” She pulled out ‘Salem’s Lot from the M section and put it with the K’s. “You should try Ludlum. I’m reading his newest paperback, The Chancellor Manuscript. I think you’d like it. Not quite as well-written as The Gemini Contenders, but good nonetheless.”
“I’ll take that recommendation into consideration. Is he anything like Clive Cussler? I like his stuff.”
“More like le Carré than Cussler.”
“Hmm,” Margaret responded, picking up Billy Joel’s The Stranger and setting it on top of Rumours.
Connie picked up Peter Straub’s Julia, which had been shelved in the wrong place, and turned it over in her hand. “Huh. I’ve been wanting to give this a try.” She held the book and gave the rack a quarter turn. “I think he’s cheating on me. Or he’s thinking about it.”
“Honey.” Margaret put down the album she was holding and raised her head. “I know I’ve said this to you before, but it bears repeating.” She waited until Connie turned to her. “David loves you. Have you got problems? Sure. Who doesn’t nowadays? Even with those problems, he loves you. I can see it when you two are together.”
Connie turned her attention back to the book rack. “That’s not what I see.”
Connie stopped turning the book rack, stepped to the circulation desk, dropped the Straub book onto it, and leaned against the desk. She faced Margaret, and for the first time in her life was envious of her friend. In her mid-fifties and single, Margaret had complete freedom to enjoy life her way. But, then again, she supposed if she thought about it long enough she could ask herself if she thought Margaret was really happy. Or was she lonely at night, going home to an empty apartment with no one to share her day with, no one with whom to laugh and watch TV? Sure, she had her dates, but...was it worth it? Life was full of trade-offs. Either you were married and happy for a while until it all fell apart and you eventually became a miserable couple, or you were single and free and lonely, pinning your hopes on the latest one-night stand.
“I see distance between us that’s growing exponentially.” Connie folded her arms and shook her head. “Great. Now I’m using math metaphors to describe my marriage problems. Of all the things to pick up from him.”
Margaret picked out one more album, Foreigner, and brought it and the other two to the circulation desk where she placed them alongside Julia. Leaning against the desk, she nudged Connie with her shoulder. “Just because there’s distance doesn’t mean he’s been drawn away by another woman. You guys have been through a helluva lot the past couple of years. You’re under stress with the budget meetings coming up, David’s trying to finish his book, and Josh is struggling through it all the best way he can, considering…well, you know.” Margaret paused before continuing. “Of course you’re going to feel distant. What couple wouldn’t?”
Connie lowered her head. “It’s Teri. That good-looking hottie that teaches with him. Has to be.” Connie walked around Margaret to the other side of the desk to check out her book.
“What evidence do you have?” Margaret picked up a pencil from the desk and pointed it at Connie. “Continuing with the math metaphor, how does it all add up?”
Connie knew Margaret was only trying to help. If she hadn’t been such a good friend Connie would have told her to take a hike. “What I see is my husband spending a greater amount of time at work than he ever has, an analytical way of going through the motions in bed, and a gorgeous, well-proportioned colleague that could seduce pi into switching to a rational number. That’s what I see.” Connie glared at Margaret. “How’s that for continuing the math metaphor?”
Margaret tried stifling a giggle, but failed.
Connie turned away. “What’s so funny?” she said, wiping her eyes.
“Oh, honey.” Margaret put a hand on Connie’s shoulder. “You made a math joke, that’s all. I didn’t …, oh, me and my utter lack of tact.”
Margaret stroked Connie’s hair with one hand, reaching under the counter with the other for a box of tissues. She handed it to Connie who yanked out two tissues, folded them, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thanks.” She dropped the tissues into the waste basket under the counter and raised her arms in surrender. “I’m so stupid. Look at me.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “I don’t have any physical evidence. Still, I—”
“Shh.” Margaret put a finger to Connie’s lips and looked out the front window. “Pauline just pulled in and you and I both know you don’t want her seeing you like this and babbling about it to all the others. Before you know it word will get around town faster than I do.” That elicited a chuckle from Connie. “Go to the ladies room and compose yourself. When you’re ready, come back out here and help us serve the good folks of Old Wachusett.”
Connie nodded, but didn’t move.
Margaret nudged her elbow. “Go.”
Connie wiped her nose once more and then walked toward the back of the library.
“Hey,” Margaret called after her. “Remember, he loves you. You’ll get through this. Take it from me. You might not think so, but I know these things.”
Connie kept walking without looking back, waving one hand in the air in salute to Margaret’s words of encouragement. I know these things. Never married, never had any children, and she knows these things. Connie shook her head as she turned the corner and opened the door to the ladies room.