Connie sat at her desk working the budget numbers. This was the only part of the job she didn’t like. No, it wasn’t the only part she didn’t like. It was the only part she hated. Connie’s forte was running the everyday operations of the library: setting work schedules, planning events for schools and storytimes for stay-at-home-moms, ordering new books, working the floor with the others and interacting with the public. Those were the things she liked about the job, the things that made her excited to come to work every day, because she never felt like she was working when doing those things.
The budget, however, was a different matter entirely. That was all work to Connie. Not that she couldn’t work the numbers—none of that left-brain/right-brain mumbo-jumbo—because she could. She simply didn’t like to work them. That was it. But, as she knew when she signed on for the directorship, it was part of the job description, and she carried out her budget responsibilities without complaining, knowing full-well that, overall, she had the best job anyone could have.
Needing a break, Connie put down the pencil and rubbed her eyes. The DJs tinny voice spoke over the end notes of the John Denver song to segue into the next one in the line-up—“Baby, Come Back” by Player. How apropos. Hands covering her eyes, elbows on the desk, Connie felt like she was going to cry for the second time this morning and she really, really wanted to be done with the crying thing.
Margaret, she thought as she rose from the chair and turned off the radio, you better be careful what you’re getting into with John Smith. Are you sure? Because if you’re not—.
No, she told herself as she began pacing the office, stop it. Stop it right now. You were sure on that sultry summer night at Anthony’s Pier 4 in Boston when David had taken your trembling, sweaty palm into his. You were the one who was sure when he lowered himself on bended knee and produced that small black box that held all your dreams and desires. Your future. You were the one who had been sure when you answered him yes, yes, yes!
Until two years ago, Connie had been sure of everything. Then everything changed. Everything shifted. Everything came crashing down in that cataclysmic earthquake that had shaken her family to its very core on that July 4th. But, in spite of that, she and David and Joshua had survived. They had survived it by staying together.
But now—
A noise. Connie stopped pacing, stood in the center of the room, and tilted an ear toward the doorway. A faint rapping. Connie was the only one left in the library, the front door was locked, and all the times she had spent alone before and after hours in the building she could not remember ever hearing any similar sound. Maybe it was—. Another sound, this time it was five raps. Someone knocking? She left her office, passed through the processing room, and turned the corner toward the front entrance. She saw two things that startled her, one of which was completely natural for her to see on a February morning—although the degree of it surprised her—and one of which surely was not, and it was this one that had startled her and caused her to bring her hands to her mouth and draw in a breath.
The first was the storm. It was snowing, which is to say it was getting perilously close to blizzard-like conditions. She could barely see the fire station across the street, and could not see any of the post office or City Hall buildings a block up the street from the fire station.
The second thing, the one that was not natural for her to see standing outside the Old Wachusett Public Library in a blinding snow storm in 1978 was a deeply-tanned man with long, black hair wearing what appeared to be animal skin clothing adorned with multi-colored beads and feathers. Not only was it not natural for her to see such a man at such a time standing on the other side of the glass door, there was something else not natural, but Connie couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
The man smiled. Connie looked over her shoulder, looking for…what, a person standing behind her? She turned to the man outside. He motioned for her to come to the door. He took hold of the handle and gave it a shake, pointing at it.
Embarrassed by her behavior, Connie lowered her hands and approached the door. She put her hands on the handle and lock, but did not unlock the door. “May I help you?” she said through the glass.
The man pointed into the library then cupped his hands around his mouth. “May I come in?”
“I’m sorry,” Connie pointed to the notice tapped to the glass. “We’re closed. The storm.”
The man nodded. “I understand,” he yelled above the howling wind. He pointed again at the inside of the library. “May I come in?”
Connie’s internal alarms sounded. What was this man doing out in a storm dressed as an Indian? Why was he determined to get into the library?
The man yelled, but Connie, who had been staring at the man’s beaded and feathered necklace, did not hear what he said. She shook her head to clear the momentary lapse in attention. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Still smiling, he cupped his hands to his mouth. “I asked if Margaret was still here.”
Margaret? Why would he…wait. Holy cow, wait a minute. Did I mention he’s also part Indian? I think he said Nipmuc or Algonquin. John Smith? The man standing in the blizzard was Margaret’s new man, her mature man with a career, the Indian whose name happens to be John Smith?
“Is Margaret still here?” The man showed no signs of irritation or frustration at Connie’s unwillingness to open the door. “I thought I might catch a ride with her.”
“No,” Connie said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, she left early because of the storm.” Connie shrugged and smiled.
“I was out walking and got caught in the storm.” Something about the man bothered Connie. It wasn’t his behavior or what he was saying, it was more like—.
“Could I use your phone to arrange for a ride? I have no way of getting home.”
Connie, ever mindful of being in a situation where she was alone with a man who was also a stranger, was no less mindful of that now as she dug for her keys in the pocket of her slacks. What were the chances of a rapist or strangler posing as an Indian to gain access to a public library claiming to know Margaret on the same day Margaret had professed meeting a man who claimed to be an Indian? Maybe in a low-budget, made-for-TV, ABC movie of the week, but not in real life.
Before she knew exactly what she was doing, Connie unlocked the door. The man stepped back, allowing her to swing the door open. He stepped into the entryway. Connie closed the door, hesitated before locking it, realized she was being silly, and inserted the key into the cylinder and turned it. When she pulled the key out and turned to face the man, his long, black hair flowing over his shoulders and ending midway down his back, it was revealed to Connie—and that is precisely how it felt to her, a revelation—what had bothered her about the man while he had been standing out in the storm.
Upon that revelation, Connie felt colder than she would have had she been the one standing in the blizzard.