Lakeshore Christmas (4 page)

His ancient but still-in-effect contract with the production company had limited his earnings from the movie to a pittance. To this day, he had no idea why his parents
had allowed it. That same contract called for him to participate materially in promotion of the movie—which meant he had to appear in DVD extras. Creating those segments earlier in the year had reminded him of the things he disliked about fame—knowing he wasn’t the person everyone saw and loved on screen. Having to hide who he really was.

Being a composer kept him involved in music, though by choice, he was mostly anonymous, creating sound-tracks and jingles to order. It freaked him out that people recognized him, and that interest was renewed thanks to the DVD. He only hoped it would blow over soon.

The part of him that still loved to perform found satisfaction, as well. He visited Avalon frequently to play with a group of his friends in a band called Inner Child, and they had the occasional gig at local festivals or a neighborhood club. This year, he agreed to be the guest host for a local radio show, “Catskills Morning,” consisting of news, talk and music of his choice, five days a week. The regular host was on maternity leave.

His life was a far cry from the orgy of fame and fortune he’d once pictured for himself. But it was a much better fit.

The meeting ended as it always did, with the serenity prayer and a quick cleanup of the coffee service; then Eddie prepared to head home for the evening. He stopped at Wegmans and treated himself to his favorite take-out dinner—a pimento cheese sandwich, a big fat dill pickle, a bag of chips and a root beer soda. On the way out of the store, he encountered one of the earliest signs of the season—a Salvation Army bell ringer.

The insistent clanging of the bell was both annoying and impossible to ignore. Scrounging a crumpled bill
out from his pocket, he stuffed it into the painted red bucket.

“Thanks,” said the bell ringer. He was young, just a boy, really. Something about him was familiar in a vague, distant way. The teenager reminded Eddie of some of his students, back in the city—hungry but proud. Maybe the kid had been in previous Christmas pageants. But no. Eddie was pretty sure he would remember that long, dark hair and soulful eyes, the slightly bemused smile.

“I’m Eddie Haven,” Eddie said.

He gave a nod. “Jabez Cantor.”

“New around here?” Eddie asked.

“Kind of. I’ve been away for a while. Just got back to town.”

“Hey, same here.”

Another kid came out of the store, staring down at a handheld game as he walked, oblivious to everything. By the time Eddie realized where he was headed, it was too late. Both he and Jabez said, “Watch out,” at the same time, but the kid had already crashed into the tripod holding up the collection bucket, knocking it to the ground with a clatter.

“Sorry,” he said, stuffing the handheld into his pocket and dropping down on his knees to retrieve the spilled coins. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It happens,” said Jabez, stooping down to help.

Eddie pitched in, too, scooping coins from the pavement. He couldn’t help noticing the scars on Jabez’s hands. They had the taut shine of very old burns, imperfectly healed.

An older guy with iron-gray hair and a long overcoat came toward them. “Cecil,” he said in a voice grating with disapproval, “what’s going on here?”

“I knocked this thing over,” the boy named Cecil said. “Sorry, Grandpa.”

The older guy looked exasperated. Cecil worked faster, trying to round up the spilled coins while Jabez reassembled the tripod. A couple of minutes later, everything was back in place. The grandfather strode away toward a sleek Maybach. The kid started after him, hesitated and dug a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the collection bucket. Jabez thanked him, but he probably didn’t hear as he rushed to catch up with his grandfather.

Eddie studied the boy named Jabez, who was staring thoughtfully after them. Actually, a lot of people were staring at the Maybach, since you didn’t see a car like that every day, but Jabez seemed more focused on the older guy.

“He looks familiar,” Jabez said.

“Everything all right?” asked Eddie.

“Sure,” said the boy.

“You hungry?” Eddie held out the sack.

“No, I’m good. Really. But thanks.”

Eddie had learned not to push for too much information. That often resulted in a kid running off and disappearing for good. “You like doing volunteer work?”

The kid indicated the Salvation Army bucket. “Guess so.”

“Good. A group of us are going to be putting up a nativity scene Friday night—you know what that is?”

The kid chuckled. “Yeah, I know what a nativity scene is.”

“Just asking. Anyway, they could use more volunteers.” He scribbled the time and a place on his white deli bag,
tore it off and handed it to Jabez. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Jabez took the slip of paper and put it into his breast pocket. “Maybe you will.”

A
fter her meeting with Eddie Haven, Maureen was convinced of at least two things. First, Eddie was going to be a big problem in the weeks to come. And second, he was not the worst thing she could expect to happen this week.

She felt an ominous sense of apprehension as she stayed late at the library the next day. An important board meeting would convene at closing time. Although not a member of the library board, she was a key participant in their meetings. While waiting for the small group to arrive, she went through the usual ritual of securing the building. When she reached the main entrance, she stepped outside, breathing deeply of the crisp, empty air.

A light snowfall would be nice, she thought, surveying the parklike surroundings. In a side garden with an ancient yew rumored to have been brought from the yard of Cadbury Castle in England, there was a smallish, lonely-looking block of granite with a commemorative plaque. It was an unassuming monument to the unknown boy who had died in the library fire a hundred years before.

The trees had long since dropped their colorful mantles of leaves. The grass had gone dormant and lay dry and beaten down, as if it would never grow again. An air of bleakness hovered everywhere, giving the place a sense of waiting. A good, clean snowfall would change everything. Situated on the east side of Willow Lake, the town of Avalon usually received early and copious snow. But the weather came in its own time, and a simple wish would not hurry it along.

Enough moping around, she told herself. It would take a lot more than Eddie Haven or even a fiasco at work to ruin her Christmas.

Time to go inside and get ready for the meeting. As she passed beneath the library building’s arched portico of figured concrete, she could still feel an echo of reverence. The entry to the library was designed to inspire it. Chiseled into the concrete were the words
Make thy books thy companions. Let thy cases and shelves be thy pleasure grounds and gardens.—Judah ibn-Tibbon (12th century).
Which was a diplomatic way of saying, Maureen supposed, that it was all right to have no life.

She wasn’t being fair to herself. She did have a life, a life in books and in the embrace of a large, supportive family. This was more than many people had, and she was grateful.

She grabbed a yogurt from the tiny fridge in the break room and called it dinner, which she consumed while reading a publisher’s advance copy of an upcoming self-help book called
Passionate Living for Shy People.
It was filled with advice no one in their right mind would ever take, like signing up for salsa dancing lessons or participating in touch therapy. Reading about such things was so much safer than actually doing them. Losing herself in a book usually brought the world back into balance,
but it didn’t always work. By the time she finished her yogurt, she was feeling decidedly unsettled. The topic of today’s meeting was the budget, and she knew the news would not be good.

The library’s executive board members arrived, heading into the meeting room with their laptops and briefcases. The four of them stood up when Maureen joined them, waiting in a line on the far side of the table, as solemn and intent as a firing squad.

She draped her coat over the back of a chair. “It’s not good, is it?”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Mr. Shannon, the president of the board, folded his hands on top of an official-looking document. “Worse than not good. Unless we can pull a rabbit out of a hat, we’re done. The facility is closing at the end of the year.”

“Please, Miss Davenport, have a seat,” said another board member.

She sank down onto one of the molded plastic stacking chairs, folded her hands in her lap. She knew the facility had been operating in the red for a long time. It was no one’s fault, simply the fallout from a disastrous system wide finance crisis, exacerbated by rising costs and hard times for the entire area. When revenues shrank, hard choices had to be made. Priority funding went to life-or-death agencies—police, fire, EMS. Maureen might consider the library vital to the life of the community, but to many people, already feeling overburdened, it was expendable.

Mr. Shannon summarized the dilemma so the secretary could include the discussion in the minutes. After the original building burned down, the library had been rebuilt by Mr. Jeremiah Byrne. Although the building and grounds remained in the family, Byrne had extended a
99-year lease to the institution. Now it fell to a Mr. Warren Byrne to extend the lease.

And he had, but there were conditions attached. The lease would not be renewed until the library could fund itself, and that meant coming up with an entire annual operating budget before the end of the year. The library board secured a grant from the city, coupling this with donations and public monies, and for a time, the crisis seemed to be averted. The grant money for the next fiscal year had not come through, and the shrunken tax base had caused a budget cut. The library had been cut off like a bleeding artery.

Maureen tried to focus on what the head of the library board was saying. She was trying, actually, to hear anything but what he was saying.

“We’re out of money” could only be interpreted in one way.

Her heart sank. The library?
Closed?
It was impossible to imagine Avalon without its library. The public library was one of the most revered and recognizable institutions in any town. Avalon’s had always seemed special. Following the fire that had taken the boy’s life, the devastated community had pulled together, raising the new building as a monument to the spirit of resilience. For the next ninety-nine years, the place had endured, seemingly as permanent as the granite rock formations around Willow Lake. It was an illusion, though. Soon all of Avalon would know they were celebrating the library’s centennial by announcing its closure.

“I knew there was a budget crisis,” she said, trying to keep panic at bay. “I didn’t realize it was so dire.” Yes,
dire
. It wasn’t a word she used every day. Unfortunately, it was the right word for the current situation. Fixing a determinedly pleasant smile on her face, she said, “We
can send out an emergency appeal. Do another fund-raiser. A whole series of them. What about an urgent letter, a capital campaign? An auction or event—” Her smile sagged as she surveyed their bleak faces. “I know. We’ve done all that.”

“And frankly, we don’t even have the money for postage,” said the treasurer.

“What about emergency funds from the county? Or the state—”

“Despite what we all think, Ms. Davenport, this is not considered an emergency like a wildfire or flood. The sad fact is, our expenses greatly outstrip our resources, and they have for quite some time.” He indicated the large, intimidating figure printed boldly in bright holly-red. “We’re not going to make it.”

“There has to be something more we can do,” she insisted. “What about asking Mr. Byrne to renegotiate the terms of the lease? Or ask for an extension until we can come up with more funds.”

“Warren Byrne? He’s the stingiest man in town.”

“And the richest,” she pointed out.

“He got that way by being stingy. He’s never given the library a penny.” Mr. Shannon shook his head. “We’ve asked, and he’s refused. The sum we need is out of our reach, pure and simple. Our major donors have been more than generous, but there’s a limit to what can be done with private funding. Without the grant, we’re out of options,” he said with a weary sigh. “Times being what they are, even our biggest donors are overcommitted—or tapped out. Perhaps if the recent bond issue had passed, we wouldn’t be in this position, but the voters declined to approve it.”

Maureen gritted her teeth. A small but vocal group of tax protesters had convinced people that the library was
not worth saving if it meant a small added sales tax. She had campaigned hard for the bond, but it had failed.

“Our state assemblywoman requested a budget variance on our behalf, and so has the city council,” Mr. Shannon was saying. “But the money is not there, not for this. There are other matters ahead of us in the queue.”

The treasurer passed out her latest report. “Under the circumstances, we can’t come close to meeting our operating budget for the next year. We have until year’s end to close our doors and transfer all assets to the main library branch in the county.”

Maureen saw her own despair reflected in their faces. “What’s going to happen to this place?”

“Most of the collection and assets will be distributed among other library branches. The property is likely to be sold to a developer. Thanks to a building preservation ordinance, the space will be used rather than torn down.”

“Used for what?” Maureen asked. She pictured the venerable old place, converted to a craft shop or B & B. Not that she had anything against craft shops or B & Bs, but this was a
library.

“You’re giving up, then,” she said. “Just like that.”

“Not just like that,” Mr. Shannon said, his voice thin with weariness. “We’ve left no stone unturned. You know we’ve been working nonstop.”

“I do know, I’m sorry. But…it’s the library,” she said in her broken whisper. She gestured around the room, its walls hung with old photographs depicting the library’s history. The arched doorway framed a view of the main room. In the half light slanting through the windows, the neat stacks and polished oak tables gleamed.

“And that’s the problem,” Mr. Shannon said, donning his overcoat and flat driving cap. “It doesn’t matter to
enough people. Most people I’ve talked to don’t see letting one library go as a total disaster. It just means a few more people will have to drive an extra twenty miles to get books, or wait for the Bookmobile to show up. Hardly the greatest of catastrophes in times like these.”

Maureen felt a chill, knowing he was right. “Yes, this is just one library, but our situation is being replicated everywhere. They just barely managed to save the library in Salinas—John Steinbeck’s hometown. Philadelphia lost eleven branches last year. An entire county in Oregon shut down their system. It’s all part of a slow erosion. When will it stop?”

“The city council had to fund public safety,” Mr. Shannon pointed out. “Do they monitor misdemeanor sex offenders or pay the library’s light bill? There’s really no choice.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m…trying to, anyway.”

“Thanks for meeting with us,” he said. “I wanted to tell you in person as soon as we heard the bad news.”

She stood up, walked with him to the door. “I appreciate it.” Everyone else followed, silent and somber. Maureen felt shell-shocked, like an accident victim. She’d always pictured herself spending her entire career here, serving the institution she loved. Now, she realized, in a few weeks she’d be out of a job.

Mrs. Goodnow, the board secretary, said, “We’re planning a potluck for the closing ceremony at the end of the year.”

Maureen tried not to sway on her feet. “Yes, all right,” she managed to say. She shut the double doors to the meeting room behind her.

Mr. Shannon paused at the exit, draping a muffler around his shoulders. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be a few minutes more. I need to check my e-mail and rearrange a few things on my schedule.”

“Take care, Ms. Davenport.”

“You, too, Mr. Shannon.”

He hesitated a moment longer. “You don’t look well.”

She felt a nauseating wave of grief. “This library is part of the fabric of the town. We can’t just close.” She thought about the children who came for story hour. The seniors who came for book clubs and computer classes. The adult literacy program. Then she pictured its doors being closed and locked forever. And something inside her curled up and died.

“Can I get you something before I go?” Mr. Shannon offered. “A glass of water or—”

“A miracle,” she said, forcing a smile. “A miracle would be good right about now.”

In the empty quiet of the library, Maureen didn’t check her mail. She didn’t even go near her desk. Instead, she went to the stacks, walking slowly between the tall oaken shelves, running her hands across the spines of the books. She’d always considered the library a sacred place, a place of ideas and art, a safe place to let dreams take flight.

A library—this library in particular—had always filled her with reverence. It was a cathedral for the most diverse elements of mankind, where all of humanity could find its place. She’d practically grown up here in this historic Greek revival building, with its marble halls and leaded windows, the polished mahogany railings and casements. In the center of the building was a sky-lit atrium, featuring a winding staircase leading to the children’s room. When she was very small, climbing the staircase had felt like a special rite of passage, like ascending to heaven.

It was fitting that Maureen would one day become a steward of the institution. Oh, there had been a couple of years in college when she’d been bitten by the theater arts bug, dreaming instead of a future on stage, as if such a thing could actually happen to a girl like her.

A disastrous adventure abroad had cured her of that notion. Even now, years later, the memory of her semester in Paris made her shudder. The life lesson had been slammed home with the force of a tidal wave. She’d learned quickly that she was made for a quieter, more mindful life. Working at the library offered her exactly that. She could be here doing work that mattered, that made her feel vital and alive…and safe.

Yet soon, this place would cease to exist. The county system might assign her to the bookmobile, she thought with a shudder. The one time she’d served in the bookmobile, as an intern, she’d gotten carsick. She could probably find a position in another town, or at the college in New Paltz, but working in this particular place was so much more than a job to her. And it was about to be taken away.

She couldn’t imagine her life without this library. What would she do every day? Where would she go? Who would she be? She refused to imagine it. But that was just denial, wasn’t it? It was time to face the cold, hard facts. By year’s end, the library would be closed. She had to quit hoping for a miracle.