Louisiana Saves the Library (3 page)

“Let's go,” Max said from the backseat.

Louise pushed the “navigate” button. According to the system, Alligator Bayou was a thirty-minute drive.

 

Thirty minutes and thirty years back in time.

As a child, Louise had loved to accompany her grandmother on errands. Long after everyone else had moved on to big-box stores and the mall, Gram continued to do her shopping in dying downtown North St. Paul. The pharmacist marked down the toothpaste and aspirin prices for her before ringing everything up. The barbershop had a striped pole out front and a Zenith inside tuned to one of the two network stations that came in without too much fuzz. Afterward, they went to Anderson's bakery for donuts. Everything Gram needed was contained in those few blocks. It was wonderfully simple.

Alligator Bayou was a little like that Minnesota town. A salon called the Cut and Dye replaced the barbershop, and the Mark's drugstore was larger and more brightly lit than old Mr. Rupert's. The Piggly Wiggly looked a lot like the old Kendall's Louise remembered, though. It even had a screen door rather than a modern sliding-glass one. Instead of a bakery, next door was a Dairy Queen knockoff with a red roof and a walk-up window. A few feet away from the Icy Cone, a gas station with a rooster mascot advertised “crispy fried chicken.” Selling fossil fuel and breaded bird together was unprecedented in Minnesota. But the main difference between Alligator Bayou and North St. Paul was the configuration of downtown. All of the businesses occupied one side of the street, and there was nothing but swamp and railroad tracks in the other direction.

Louise parked in front of the library. When she had first moved to Louisiana, the tinted windows on commercial buildings led her to believe that everything was closed. She'd become used to perpetually dark windows after a few months, but the slate-gray glass on the Alligator Bayou Parish Library shone like two menacing eyes.

The library brought back less comforting memories than the rest of Alligator Bayou. Louise had difficulty fitting in long before her move to Louisiana. As soon as she started kindergarten, the kids in school singled her out like tigers attacking the weakest gazelle. She took refuge in books, hiding from the world in a library much like this one. She was safe there among all the fictional characters she loved. Wandering the dark, cool stacks, she could be someone else, at least for a little while. It was a lonely existence, though. The library was a reminder of her conflicting desires—to find a place in the world and to escape from it.

She opened Zoe's door, and her snack container fell out of the van. Cheerios covered the car seat, and Zoe's top was stained red with Cherry Yummy juice. Louise unbuckled her and pulled off the shirt, replacing it with one from the emergency bag. The backup had a spot of something resembling chocolate on the front, and its bright orange color clashed with Zoe's pink pants. Louise briefly considered changing the pants and decided it was too much work. Exhaustion enveloped her like a fog and desperation wasn't far behind.
Please let them behave for once.

Max was in better shape than his sister. He had eaten all his cereal but tossed his drink box on the floor, where it had created a sticky puddle on the carpet. His clothing was relatively clean, at least.

“Guys, this is a library, so let's try to remember to keep it to a dull roar,” Louise said, setting Zoe on the sidewalk.

Max jumped out of the van and ran toward the library. Zoe raced away in the opposite direction. Louise scooped her up and she wailed in protest.

Inside the building, she released Zoe, who immediately plopped down on the floor and stuck her lower lip out in a comically exaggerated pout. Max terminated his hyperactivity at the circulation desk and became surprisingly still, staring around as though he'd landed on a deserted alien planet.

That time of afternoon, the library should have been filled with moms and young children, shift workers, retired men reading the newspaper, kids on their way home from school. But the place was so quiet that the ticking of the clock above the circulation desk sounded like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story.

Rows of gray bookshelves dominated the room. The dust covers had been removed from the books, leaving the dull grays and faded reds of the exposed cloth spines. A few uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs were arranged around the periodical display. The children's area was marked by a crude handmade sign and decorated with faded cartoon pilgrims and turkeys that must have been from the Reagan era.

Louise wasn't surprised that the library was empty. No one would want to use the obsolete computers, dusty books, and magazines that looked like they had seen double duty in a crowded dental office. Something was wrong here, and it wasn't just the creepy clock. Adwell's comment about scanning bar codes took on new meaning. If Louise didn't publish and apply for jobs, she could end up in a depressing, neglected place exactly like this. She swallowed hard.

One benefit of the lack of patrons was that no one was around for Max and Zoe to disturb. Already, Max had snapped out of his contemplative state and headed to the periodical rack, probably to tear up the magazines. “Let's see if they have any kids' books published in this century,” Louise said, leading the way.

In the children's area, she chose a few of the coverless picture books and tossed them onto the plain brown children's table. Max sat in a chair and opened
Curious George Rides a Bike
. Zoe followed his lead, taking
Blueberries for Sal
from the bottom shelf. Louise fantasized that they would remain well behaved for the entire visit. More likely, she'd soon be apologizing for a misdeed such as a torn book or a smashed knickknack like the ceramic turkey perched at the edge of the circulation desk. Her neck muscles tightened.

She walked up to the circulation desk. The high counter was dominated by two computers with fat old-style monitors for checking out books, should the library ever have any patrons. The lower desk faced the children's area. There was only room for one employee to sit, and a woman in her sixties with indifferently dyed brown hair occupied the spot. She set down the newsletter she was reading when Louise approached.

“Hi, I'm Louise Richardson from Louisiana A&M. I called about the library documents.”

“Oh, yes.” The woman stood. She wore ironed khaki pants with a tie-front blouse. “My name is Lily. I'm sort of the local history expert. Genealogy mostly. We have microfilm of all the census documents here, some old family Bibles, letters, things like that.”

Louise nodded politely. She wasn't the least bit interested in genealogy, and local history as practiced by people like Lily was mostly folklore. A few well-worn stories told by the oldsters, written down by their grandchildren, and self-published in thin, slick paperbacks.

“I might could take a break.” Lily turned around. “Hope, can you watch the desk for me?”

Louise was momentarily distracted by Lily's choice of words. She'd very clearly said “might could,” an odd phrase that Louise had never heard during her time in Louisiana. She mentally added it to the list of unique local vernacular she'd been collecting. Perhaps someday she could work it into an article.

A squeak of sneakers on tiled floor announced Hope's entrance. She was nothing like the delicate waif her name suggested. A pair of sturdy polyester pants and a polo shirt encased her blocky body, and her dirty-blond hair was cut into a bob that made her face look square. Heavy, Southern-style makeup emphasized her penetrating blue-gray eyes. At a glance, Louise pegged her as a force to be reckoned with.

“Those your kids?” she asked.

Louise turned around, guiltily realizing that she'd momentarily forgotten about them. Max was ripping the last page from the Curious George book. Zoe had already denuded an entire row in the young adult section and was deep into a novel about vampires. Louise bit her lip to keep from screaming. It was not too late to cram the kids back into their car seats, drive home, and pour herself a glass of wine.

“Max! We do not tear the pages out of books.” Louise did her best stern teacher impression, which usually had no effect. “Pick up those pages right now and tell Ms. Hope you're sorry.”

Max closed the book and grabbed
Blueberries for Sal
.

Hope came out from behind the desk. “Max, you are not to do that. Ripping up books is a bad thing to do.”

Max stared at her, his eyes wide with awe. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Come here and give me that book.”

Hanging his head in an uncharacteristic show of remorse, Max carried the book to Hope.

“It's ruined now,” Louise said. “Don't ever do that again.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Max went back and sat on his chair.

“I'm sorry about that.” Lately, the children were determined to destroy the world. Their last trip to the grocery store had resembled a mini twister, ending with two broken eggs and one smashed jar of pickles. Sometimes, she couldn't wait for them to grow up—or at least get through this phase of utter carelessness.

Hope followed her to the young adult section, taking long strides with her stocky legs. “No harm done. That there book was so old, the pages been taped a hundred times already. Got an excuse to throw it out now.”

When they reached Zoe, Hope pulled a worn white rabbit puppet with a pink nose out of her back pocket. Zoe dropped the vampire novel.

“Fred the bunny will play with you,” Hope said, pulling the puppet back. “But you have to come back to the children's area, okay?”

Zoe nodded.

“I'll take care of these two. Y'all go about your business.” Hope took Zoe's hand, led her to the children's area, and brought out Fred the bunny again. The kids watched the puppet with an absorption they usually reserved for TV.

Lily put aside the newsletter she'd begun reading again and pushed through the circulation half-door. “I'll show you our history room.”

Louise gave her strangely well-behaved children one last glance before following the librarian past two gray cubicles shoved against the wall. One was empty except for a computer like the ones on the circulation desk. In the other, a tall, gray-haired man hunched over a telephone. His limbs seemed to take up every inch of space in the tiny enclosure.

Louise trotted to catch up with Lily as she opened a door in the back of the library. Once they were inside, the librarian flipped the light switch and a fluorescent bulb buzzed on overhead. “Microfilm of census data is in this cabinet. This one has a copy of the city charter and some old maps. I don't even know what all's in there. You can look at whatever you want as long as you put it back.”

“Is there anything about the first Alligator Bayou library?” Louise asked.

“The State Library set up a demonstration around 1946. The first branch was in the courthouse. Then the voters passed a property tax to keep funding it. I think there's a picture of the bookmobile in there. They started that after the tax passed. It ran until the 1980s. I guess they figure everyone around here has a car anyway.” She opened the file cabinet and handed Louise a folder. “I'll go get Hope. Sometimes she knows more about the recent stuff than I do.”

Louise sat down with the file and sifted through old flyers for county fairs, historical society newsletters, photographs of the town from the early 1900s, a few papers in a language she didn't recognize. Inside a stained brown envelope, she found a photo of the bookmobile, a modified truck with “State Library” painted on the side. Another photograph showed five girls in short dresses standing next to a brick building. Someone had written on the back, “May 10th, 1947. First story hour at Alligator Bayou Library.”

She turned the photo over again and studied the girls. They were all white, five or six years old, with faces scrunched in little-kid hilarity. Three wore Mary Janes with white socks, and the other two were barefoot. Louise's grandmother had been a proper lady with a once-a-week hairstyle-and-wash appointment and a closet full of pastel polyester suits. She never would have allowed her children to go anywhere without shoes. But Louise's father had been the type of kid to take his off as soon as he left the house. By his own account, he and his brother had driven their straitlaced mother crazy. Louise had grown up hearing stories of his antics—dyeing their white cat pink, cooking up bogus science fair projects. When she was a child, the tales had made her wish she were a boy. They had all the fun, it seemed.

“You got a question?” Hope's voice was too loud in the enclosed space. Louise hadn't heard her enter and she jumped up from her seat. The librarian smiled.

“What language is this?” Louise held up one of the flyers.

Hope came closer, her black sneakers squeaking again. “Hungarian. Town was settled by them, mostly. Not sure why. They were farmers, of course, except for the ones in the timber industry. Guess one family came and brought the rest. No one was really interested in settling this part here until the railroad came through. Lots of trees to cut down, but you needed a way to move them. A few years ago a train crashed into a truck right out there.” She pointed to the far wall, where a window was obscured by miniblinds. “Derailed and spilled some kind of toxic waste all over. That's how we got this land for the library. It was part of a settlement from the railroad company. Which reminds me, don't drink the water. Now, seems like nobody wants to pay for the library anymore. Last tax vote failed. Guess people think everything's on the Internet now. That or they're too lazy to read.”

Louise absorbed this information. Colorful, but she had to get back on topic. Without Hope to entertain them, the children might well be tearing pages out of books and breaking Thanksgiving statuettes. “Lily thought you might know about the early libraries around here.”