The Giving Quilt (37 page)

“Sorry,” he said, not even glancing her way. He spoke a few commands into his headset and gave Ezra McNulty a thumbs-up. Ezra grinned back and made an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles, preparing for battle. “Kind of busy here.”

“I'm Linnea Nelson from the Conejo Hills Public Library.”

His head jerked up and he spun to face her. “You're the one who set up the display of trashy books in the children's department.”

Linnea smiled thinly. “That's not how I would characterize it, but yes, I'm the one. I understand that you're allowing a few members of the public to address the crowd, and I'd like to be the first.”

Fielding brushed off an assistant and beckoned Linnea and Alicia closer. “Are you here to offer an explanation? An apology?”

Linnea shook her head. “An invitation.”

His eyes narrowed as he regarded her speculatively. “Okay,” he said. “I'm game, but don't blame me if McNulty tears you a new one.” Into the microphone he added, “Add this to the crawler. ‘Contrite librarian to address crowd at protest.' Now.”

“She's not contrite,” Alicia began, but Linnea shot her a warning look. Alicia bit back her complaints, shaking her head in disapproval.

The producer instructed an assistant to show them to a waiting area behind the stairs while he hurried onstage to inform Ezra McNulty about the change to the program. McNulty fixed Linnea and Alicia with a level stare as the producer spoke close to his ear, but suddenly his face broke out in a bright grin and he waved merrily. The women waved uncertainly back. Linnea caught a chemical whiff of smoke as someone lit the artificial logs, and the crowd broke out in cheers of anticipation.

Over the loudspeakers, the music swelled and a rich baritone voice announced Ezra McNulty. He approached the downstage microphone stand like a prizefighter, throwing punches and waving to the crowd. Linnea's heart was pounding so hard that she couldn't focus on his opening remarks, a slanted account of the events that had led to the protest, designed to stir his listeners into a frenzy.

Just when Linnea began to worry that he would move ahead to the burning of books without allowing her to speak, he took a step back, bowed his head, and raised a hand to the crowd, who gradually quieted. “Don't let anyone say that I'm not willing to listen to the other side,” he said. A few scattered boos rang out, and McNulty raised his hand again and shook his head to silence them. “No, no, we're all about freedom of speech. We're willing to let them speak their piece. Of course, when they do, they usually just prove themselves a bunch of idiots—” A roar of laughter interrupted him. “But if that's what they want to do, fine by me. We have an unexpected guest who's asked to speak to you. We're gonna let her talk, and I'm gonna ask you to be polite and respectful, no matter how much you disagree with her. Folks, I give you Linnea Nelson of the Conejo Hills Public Library, or as she's better known, Linnea the Lascivious Librarian!”

Linnea's heart sank as the crowd roared back with laughter and jeers. Alicia squeezed her hand encouragingly and accompanied her to the foot of the stairs. On trembling legs, Linnea met a grinning McNulty downstage. She nodded to him and took the microphone. “Thank you for letting me speak,” she said to the crowd, but their shouts drowned her out until McNulty gestured with outstretched arms for them to quiet down.

She took a deep breath and tried again. “I know there are many subjects on which we disagree,” she said, raising her voice to be heard, “but I hope that before you destroy these books—books that have meant so much to generations of readers—I hope that we might find some common ground.”

She spoke briefly, mindful of their impatience, their animosity. She talked about her love of reading and how it had inspired her to become a librarian. She spoke of how she witnessed every day the good libraries did and the services they provided to the community. She shared her belief that even a book whose merits were in dispute could be a catalyst for discussion, for healthy, vigorous debate that could lead to greater understanding on both sides.

“The very books you want to burn today, the books you believe are some of the worst ever written, have been considered some of the greatest works in the English language,” she said, ignoring a stream of catcalls. “How can two sides be so completely opposed?”

“We're right and you're wrong,” someone shouted, evoking jeering laughter from those around him.

“Maybe you're right,” Linnea countered, “but you won't convince me unless you talk to me. Let's talk together, not shout at each other from opposite sides of a bonfire. Let's create, not destroy.” She drew courage from the few faces in the crowd turned to her in thoughtful curiosity. “I'd like to invite you to come with me to the library. I know that for some of you, it would be your first visit. Our librarians and friends would like to talk with you about these books—why we think they're worthwhile and why you think they aren't. We also have an artist waiting, a bookbinder, who's eager to teach us all how to make our own books. You can make your own book for whatever you want to write—your memoirs, your argument in favor of this book burning, your secret recipes, a novel written the way you wish the books you want to burn had been written. It's up to you. It's your book. All we ask is that instead of tossing the books you're holding into the fire, you instead put them into our donations bin.” She forced a smile. “And if conversation and handicrafts don't tempt you, we also have coffee, tea, and cookies.” To her everlasting gratitude, someone actually laughed. “We have room enough for everyone, so please, think about it. My friend and I will be waiting over there by that bench.” She pointed across the pond to a spot near the start of the pedestrian trail. “We sincerely hope that you'll join us. Thank you.”

She replaced the microphone in the stand and left the stage. Suddenly the music surged and Ezra McNulty bounded back onstage, grinning and waving to the crowd. From the way he studiously ignored her as they passed on the stairs, she knew he was furious.

Only eight people, five women and three men, tore themselves free from the crowd and met Linnea and Alicia by the bench. “Should we wait in case anyone else is coming?” Linnea asked, her eyes fixed on the protest as Ezra McNulty paced the stage shouting his diatribe into the microphone.

“I think this is it,” Alicia said. “Let's go. I don't want to be here when they start tossing books on the pyre.”

So Linnea and Alicia led eight skeptical protestors to the library, where they placed copies of
The Grapes of Wrath
,
The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn
,
The Origin of Species
, and
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
, among others, into the donations bin. They chatted with the librarians and Friends of the Library and politely watched the artist demonstrate how to bind a book. A few even tried to make books of their own. All the while the demonstration raged outside, barely audible, not very far away.

Eventually their guests thanked them and departed. Linnea wondered whether they intended to go home or return to the protest, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.

Linnea observed the little she could bear of the book burning on CNN during her lunch hour and breaks. Kevin called twice to let her know how the get-out-the-vote effort was going and to offer her encouragement. She needed some. “Only eight people came,” she told him. “Out of more than one hundred protestors, only eight were willing to talk to us. Only eight chose conversation rather than argument, creation instead of destruction.”

“But that's eight more than would have if you hadn't tried,” he reminded her. “Sometimes changing minds happens a little at a time.”

Linnea knew he was right. She wondered how those eight people would vote the next day.

The protest wrapped up before Linnea left work for the day. The scent of smoke lingered in the air as she exited the library, but the cameras, loudspeakers, fire engines, and crowds were gone. She contemplated walking to the park to see what they had left behind, but the thought of seeing a pile of ashes where some of her most beloved books had met their end was unbearable.

Instead she drove home. Kevin greeted her with a kiss and a wordless hug. She clung to him and felt some of the stress of the day leave her.

The next morning, Linnea and Kevin walked down the street to the elementary school that was their polling place. She overheard a poll worker remark that they were expecting a record turnout. Though Kevin had been a leader of the movement to support the millage, he could not tell her whether a high turnout would most likely work in their favor or against.

They stayed up late that night awaiting the results.

Shortly after midnight, the late local news team interrupted the syndicated programming to announce that with 98 percent of the votes counted, they were declaring that the measure had passed. Fifty-two percent of the voters cast their ballots in favor of the millage, versus 48 percent against.

Kevin thrust his fists in the air and cheered, but Linnea didn't feel like celebrating. Although she was relieved that the library would be, for the immediate future anyway, safe from closure, it pained her to realize that 48 percent of her neighbors and fellow citizens of Conejo Hills did not want to save the library.

“They're not necessarily against the library,” Kevin told her when she confessed that she was relieved but not happy. “They just don't want to raise taxes to pay for it.” He gave her an encouraging smile and brushed her hair out of her face. “But well over half of the town did agree to chip in to keep the library open for everyone. They bought you time to convince the other forty-eight percent that the library is worth it.”

Linnea supposed he was right.

In the days that followed, the mood at the library was more cheerful and optimistic than it had been in months. The patrons were delighted that their literary haven would remain open, and the members of the library staff were greatly relieved that their jobs had been spared. Vote Yes for Libraries disbanded, but not before they threw a farewell party at Kevin's favorite Thai restaurant downtown. They all promised to keep in touch and to reunite whenever intolerance or injustice threatened their town.

Kevin's jovial mood diminished as they drove home. Linnea knew that his unemployment weighed heavily upon him, and working with Vote Yes for Libraries had filled his idle hours. Now, with his job prospects no better than they had been before the library was threatened, he would be thrust back into long, dull, empty days of searching for work and attending to household chores.

And life returned to normal, or something close to it.

Two days later, as Linnea and Kevin were enjoying a leisurely Sunday breakfast on the patio while their two resident teenagers slept in, Kevin went inside for another cup of coffee and returned with something on his mind. “You know, I've been thinking.”

“That usually leads to trouble,” Linnea remarked, setting the newspaper aside.

“And it might this time too.” Kevin took a sip of coffee and sat down. “Working with Vote Yes for Libraries was the most rewarding experience I've had since I lost my job. I'm glad the battle's over but I'm sorry my work is done. Do you know what I mean?”

Linnea took his hand. “I understand completely.”

“It occurred to me that there are probably other worthy causes out there, causes I believe in, that could use someone with expertise in marketing.”

“Probably? I would say definitely.”

Kevin clasped his other hand around hers. “Then maybe, in the meantime, I could contact a few nonprofits and see if they could use me. I don't mean that I'm going to volunteer forever. I want to find paying work—believe me, I do, and I'm going to keep looking.”

“I know,” she said quietly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You'll find something.”

“But until I do, I'd like to lend my skills to worthy causes that need my help,” said Kevin. “I want to give back. And who knows? Maybe I'll make some contacts. Maybe volunteering will lead to a job. But even if it doesn't, I know I'll be happier if I'm making a difference.”

Linnea's heart swelled with pride. “I think that's a wonderful idea,” she said, and she rose out of her chair to kiss him tenderly across the table.

* * *

Linnea's e-mail about the results of the millage vote and her husband's decision to continue to give back to his community through pro bono work was the best news Karen had heard in a long time. She quickly wrote back to congratulate Linnea and to wish her continued good luck on the library front. “Perhaps we should all plan to reunite at Elm Creek Quilt Camp this summer,” she suggested. “If not then, then perhaps next Quiltsgiving.”

She had already decided that when she next returned to Elm Creek Manor, it would be as a camper, not as a member of the faculty.

In the weeks that had followed Quiltsgiving, Karen had updated her résumé as Sylvia had requested, but something had held her back from submitting it. She still admired the Elm Creek Quilters and liked them more the better she knew them. She still believed that working at Elm Creek Quilt Camp would be enriching, inspiring, and rewarding—but so was working at the String Theory Quilt Shop, and they needed her so much more.

It was enough to know that the Elm Creek Quilters wanted to welcome her into their circle. That knowledge, that acceptance, was a gift that filled her heart with peace and gratitude. She told Sylvia so when she called to explain why she wouldn't be applying for the vacant position on the faculty.

“I understand completely, dear,” Sylvia had replied. “However, if you ever change your mind, please do let us know. You'll always be at the top of my list.”

Karen had thanked her and promised to keep that in mind.