Words Burned to Flame

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  My parents kept a bottle of tequila beneath the kitchen sink, next to the liquid drain cleaner and the bottle of hornet spray. They only brought out the tequila once during those days our family kept an Addieville address. Perhaps Vance and Nikki Frost had hoped they would one day have a better reason to celebrate with strong drink. Sadly, my father took that bottle out from beneath the kitchen sink with reason to mourn.

  My mother refused to touch the drink dad poured for her and instead paced around the kitchen table. “They just can’t do that. Not without holding a meeting and putting it up to public vote.”

  My father scoffed. “Do you think that would change a thing? At least the town showed me a little respect by not forcing me to go before everyone and beg.”

  “But you worked so hard and gave so much to turn that metal building into something this town could be proud to own.”

  “This town was never proud of that library, Nikki.”

  “But there was a time when they didn’t hate it so.”

  My father arched an eyebrow. “Before I added Mr. Turner’s book of poetry to the collection? Perhaps I should’ve removed that title from the card catalog. Perhaps I should never have put up such a fight.”

  “And I would never have forgiven you for surrendering.” My mother’s eyes burned. “This isn’t really about Mr. Turner’s words, Vance. That book only gave them an excuse to do this. I’m sure they never wanted this library. I’m sure they wanted a truck garage from the start.”

  “I still believe Addieville needs a library.”

  My mother growled. “This country needs many things, but this country gets what it deserves.”

  That was how I learned that Addieville chose to expel all those books my father helped gather from the library before the building was transformed into a garage and storage area for the refurbished, municipal fire truck that could second as a street plow in the event of snow. I heard my parents sigh from in my bedroom at the end of the hall. I crept to my bedroom door and saw how they slumped at the kitchen table. I wondered what would become of us. Where would we go after Addieville had no more need of us? How far would we travel before my father found another library in need of a keeper? How long might my father search before he discovered that community that didn’t despise sentiments expressed in ink? I wondered if my father might one day feel his full measure and abandon his quest to bring books to the empty country. Might my father one day decide to transform into a salesman of crop insurance or dealer of farm implements, into professions that would supply better security for his family?

  The later years would tell me that not even Addieville could cool my father’s passion for his libraries, but on that night he drank deeply from his tequila.

  Creeping back beneath my bed covers, I was certain our days in Addieville were at an end. I wondered what would become of Mr. Turner. Would he miss our family? Did he consider us as friends for defending his work? Or had he lived so long in Addieville that constant exposure to the village’s derision had finally hardened his heart? Would Mr. Turner leave that town and take a new path of his choosing, or would he retreat deeper into his home crowded with books? Would Addieville choke him until another new word of poetry never escaped him?

  I knew my family’s time in Addieville was at an end, but our neighbors remained skeptical. They planned to give us another display insure we knew we were not welcome. The town would push us one more time towards the road.