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The Last Library in the World
By Maurice R. Beaulieu III
I always thought I would leave these books before they would leave me. In a few hours, I’ll be gone, at home, without a job. After decades, we are departing one another’s company. It hurts. They are my friends, my family, the children I never had. I will miss seeing the people walking in the aisles, confused, debating to ask me for assistance until I finally approach them. And when I do, their faces would light up with the reassurance that someone is there to help them. That is what I enjoy most about my profession. I have been their helper for years, and they have been mine. I pass by the shelves in each room of the library. My fingertips graze the bookbindings, feeling their smooth and rough textures, saying my farewells to each.
Last month, my boss, Helena, a girl of twenty-something and college-bred, informed me that the library will shut down. Well, today is that day. The last day. Friday. We officially closed yesterday, but Helena and I must ready things for Monday. She’s finishing paperwork and I'm doing the tidying. The movers will come and take the books, disassemble the shelves, and let the library sit dormant until the next person buys the building. That is the fate of this Public Library where I have worked for nearly three decades.
And what am I to do now? Am I to sit in the lounge area of my assisted-living center and sing Elvis songs with the others? You want me to sing about “Blue Suede Shoes?” No thank you. If you give me Sinatra, especially, “Strangers in the Night,” and I’ll sing until the dawn rises. I need to work. It keeps my heart beating. I need to dust the shelves and guide kids to the proper aisles where they can get books on vampires and werewolves. I need to help the nervous college students who are looking to find articles on syphilis for the research paper due next week. Even the homeless guys, like Barry and Woodrow, who both come in, smelling as if they bathed in a slaughterhouse, trying to find books on home construction because they want to start their own business next year: I need them all. If anything, I could maybe find another library to work for, but I don’t know of any close by. Besides, who would hire a woman nearing eighty? I think of my husband, Gene: Destiny, he always said to me, has been written for you, Esther. Don’t fight it. Go with the flow.
A sliver of sunlight poking through a window brightens my hand for a moment. I'm not one to see signs, but maybe there is something more. I don’t know. What is free will? Is there such a thing? Gene surely didn’t think so. When he was a kid, a car accident that spared his life, but killed the driver changed his outlook. He was an “everything happens for a reason” type of man after that. I’m sure you can argue otherwise. There are always ways, I suppose. Philosophers and theologians have been doing so since the dawn of time. If you were to ask me, I would say the subject is an unresolvable one, a mystery. My opinion rests somewhere in the middle of “I guess so” and “I don’t know.” I guess there aren’t any solid answers, and I don’t know if there ever will be. I hate to think that my decisions in life—at least the good ones—were not of my doing, but instead come from something else.
How could I have gotten this far without introducing myself? You see, that’s what happens when you get older. I can just talk and talk and talk. I go off on long tangents about things that don’t even matter. The other day, right, I brought my laundry down stairs and I seen Julie there from the fourth floor. She apparently stained that God-awful dress of hers. You know the one that looks as if it was knitted by a chimp. Well, she told me about Bob from the second floor. She said that his whole safe where he kept his money and wife’s jewels was stolen. He thinks it was the nurses that come in every Thursday to check his blood sugar. Julie said that he didn’t find out until the following Tuesday. Oh, you see, there I go again. You need to remind me if I go on too long.
My full name is Esther Maria Liotta. I am the Assistant Librarian. I am of full-blooded Italian descent and yet cannot speak a full sentence in Italian if you ask me. Understanding Italian is easier than speaking it. I only know a few words in Italian, mostly swears that I will use when something unexpected happens. Like when I'm cooking my Sunday pasta and I accidentally drop the gravy to my macaroni on the floor, which happens more and more these days, I’ll yell out: Fanculo!
Occasionally, I will overhear somebody speak a few familiar words and I will say something back in the same tone. It’s nice to connect with people you don’t know, if even for a brief moment it builds rapport. It lets me know that I'm not alone. And then we go our separate ways, never to see the other again. I guess that’s life—paths of people you run into, wish well to, exchange a few words with, and never see again. The mystery.
When I was around Helena’s age, I was a blonde with a curvy body. Voluptuous, the boys called me. Now, that blonde hair I used to comb in front of the mirror before I went to bed has long since turned gray and looks as if a giant dust bunny drifted by and decided to make a nest. To think, I made fun of elderly people while in my youth, knowing all the while that these times were coming, but still I never accepted the notion. I was young. I knew it all. Gene, who died over a decade ago (I think it was that long), always said I would out live him by some years. I wish he were still here so I could tell him everything. Indeed, I had an affair. I am living with this guilt. I spent time with other men, all authors. I see myself in Helena. If I could right what was wrong, what is wrong, I can possibly find some closure.
I look out of the window, searching for Helena’s car in the parking lot. She’s overdue on her lunch. I wonder how long she can cheat on her husband before he finds out. She probably thinks I don’t suspect what is going on during these past few months. I wish I didn’t. But, I do. Oh, I do. I choose not to say anything, though. Blatantly revealing to her that I know she is having an affair on Kevin, her husband, with a man she frequently calls from her desk phone wouldn’t solve anything except make me look like I should mind my own business.
It is my own guilt that pushes me to confront Helena. I need to tell her that I was in the same position, and that eventually, regret will pour into her life and never leave, just like old age. The problem, however, is that she has accused me of not minding my own business in the past. She may mistake my concern for prying and then may not take it serious. Several months ago, I received a phone call here at the library from a man who described himself as Paul and that he had important information about a new house Helena was to buy. The call itself and the hurried words of the man seemed rather unusual. So, I called her house and left a message that Paul called about a new house she was inquiring. The next day at work, Helena took me aside and practically fired me before I told her of my innocence. Since then, I have noticed Helena acting strangely. She takes long breaks, comes in late, leaves early. I think I know what is going on.
I put my hand on the wall for balance and notice its spotted skin and defined blue veins. I don’t recall when my old age began to set in. It started, seemingly, out of nowhere. Then it stayed and never left. It’s something of a shock to see yourself at this progressed age, especially when you still feel the burst of your youth inside, and can't do anything about it. There is a certain denial that comes with aging. You don’t feel this old, not mentally, not when it comes to your personality. You feel your age when you look at others who have their youth. Their face reflects it. Their eyes beam with a specific intensity they don’t even know they have. It’s in the way they walk, too. It’s as if each step announces that they think they deserve special recognition from believing they have deciphered all the world’s problems. I only hope I didn’t appear so naïve when I was in my youth.
At seventy-six, my fingers, as aching with arthritis as they are, still hold life when it comes to stacking books and stamping covers. Some days, like today, I didn’t take my dementia medication. Things seem in slow motion sometimes. I slept late and had to catch my bus. I quit driving years ago when I sold my house and moved into the retirement community where I am staying now. I can't even imagine driving anymore, e
specially when I don’t take my medicine. I need a new hearing aid, too. It’s been broke for a few weeks now. But my sense of smell is just as strong as when I was in my youth. Smell doesn’t age. And nothing pleases me more than the scent of these books, the old pages, the bookmarks I made from construction paper, the collected dust within each high-ceilinged room of the library.
It makes me think of one of the first books I read. My parents picked up The Iliad at a yard sale when I was young. For the next several days, I buried my thoughts within its pages, smelling every fiber of the book. I knew, from that moment onward, that literature was my love. I knew I would be prepared to make it first in my life. I would schedule everything else in my life around this passion.
When the doctors diagnosed me with cancer they gave me two choices: I could undergo surgery to take it out or let it sit. I chose the latter. At my age, I honestly don’t think my body can handle a major surgery. I really don’t. It would probably kill me quicker than just letting it take its course. They mentioned chemo, but I never considered that an option anyway. This was two months ago. Wait a minute. Was it two months? Or was it five? I think it was five because I remember Helena started to stay later on her lunch breaks. Nope, I was right the first time—it was two.
My cancer takes a lot out of me, but I’m a trooper. Some days I feel fine. Others, I feel weak and prone to vomit. I'm not ready to go just yet. As I said before, I never had any kids, so I'm on my own. They say due to my age the cancer doesn’t spread fast. People expect me to sit around and dwell on my sickness all day long, but I don’t. I can’t. It just isn’t in me to do that. And besides, who says cancer is going to kill me? I could be hit by a bus when I leave work in a few hours or mugged in front of my apartment building because I'm a Yankee fan living closer to Boston than New York. Those Red Sox fans take it too far.
I roam through the large rooms of the library, admiring the vast ceilings with chapel-ish paintings and antique shelves. In general, I find myself wandering more and more lately. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I will exit my room, take the elevator down to the foyer and begin pacing the grounds, even going outside before a security guard finds me. And that’s the thing about these security guards: who do they think they are? They shine that bright light on me from their car as if I am some kind of elderly felon rummaging through the garden looking to steal some violets.
I pass by the section where we keep the Shakespeare plays. The end of a book, a favorite of mine, sticks out from the rest, as if someone pulled it out slightly to see the cover and was too lazy to slide it back into place. I think of my lover when he followed me home. I heard clicking at my window. He was throwing pebbles. I was petrified, yet aroused, ashamed, yet proud.
Helena returns from her lunch break. She’s fifteen minutes over, but I won’t say anything. She walks with her head high. She is a leader. You can see it when you look at her. It’s in her shoulders—they remain still, unwavering, though when she looks at you or talks to you they may finally sway a tad if she decides to laugh, but not for long. She hasn’t mentioned her plans post library or of any prospective jobs. Maybe she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me. I understand. Helena, I must note, is not a bad boss. She is just young and already successful. And when dealing with most people who are from a much different generation than you, you must make certain considerations.
Helena says something to me, but all I hear are mumbles. I point to my ear. “What, dear?” I say to Helena and walk closer to her.
“How’s the counter I asked you to clear?”
“Oh, it’s fine. I sorted the papers and placed them in the files and threw away some trash I found under the desk.”
She turns on the computer and rubs her shoulders. “It is cold in here.”
“I know. Did they really have to turn the heat off yesterday?”
“I have a few more things to do,” she says, “and then we can leave. If you could, Esther, just take another quick trip around and see if anything needs attention. I think there are some papers to shred in the lobby.”
Helena begins typing. She fixes her collar, hiding a red mark on her neck, a hickey. How are you going to explain that one? An hour ago, Helena’s red hair was perfect, every strand placed in unison. Her earrings were in. Her pants were flat. Now, she wears a makeshift ponytail. Her pants have wrinkles. She is missing an earring. She reeks of a man’s stink all over her. Believe me, sweetie, you are not fooling anyone.
I make my way down the corridor. The stairwell is desolate and smells of cold concrete. The clacking sounds of my shoe heels echo against the walls. I check the magazine shelf to make sure everything is in order. A hardcover Madame Bovary rests amongst the flimsy, outdated journals. I skim through its pages, and remember the main character’s desire: unconditional, fantasy-like love. All she wanted was love. That was it. We all do. Don’t we? I close Madame Bovary and place it back amongst the magazines.
Stacks of papers sit on the counter. I plug in the shredder. Papers slice. The hum of the machine becomes hypnotic. The revolving doors begin to turn. A man walks in, looks around the room before spotting me. He approaches.
I mean to repeat what the sign already says and instead I say, “May I help you?” It’s a habit.
He doesn’t reply.
I ask him again.
Still nothing.
The man’s face is as ancient as mine is. He looks familiar, something around the eyes. A philosopher, maybe. A poet, certainly. Finally, he speaks. His voice is deep, meaningful, making sure every word he says is of calculated reason. He tells me of writing on papyrus. I ask him if there is any truth to the stories he wrote, if there are ever any truths in the great fiction of the world. Yes, he says, there are truths, but all truths are not the same for everyone. I don’t answer. I am not sure I know what he means. The man goes on. He tells me of the politics of war, epic battles, cities with great walls, swords and shields, bows and chariots, forbidden loves and destined death, brave men and intervening Gods.
He says I look like a woman he loved when we were both younger. He says he asked this woman, who looks like me, to leave everything behind and go with him. He promised her adventures and romance. And the woman who looked like me did. She placed her hand in his and left with the man. This man and woman stayed up long nights, exhausting one another with their stories until she decided to return home to her husband.
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“Good Lord, Esther,” Helena says to me as I return. “How can you be sweating? It must thirty degrees in here.”
I pat my forehead with my sleeve. “I finished shredding the papers.”
“Take a seat. I should have never let you climb those stairs alone. Are you okay?”
I sit, out of breath. “Never better.”