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Kristina Riggle Short Stories |
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"The Bookworm" I hate to fire her. I really do. Her eager, frail image haunted me as I drove to the library this morning, knowing what had to be done. As I sit here in my cluttered and windowless office, on this late Friday afternoon, I recall the day we met with a fondness now tainted by the task ahead of me. She was so quiet she seemed almost not to be there, as though if I blinked twice she would vanish. "Mr. Cahill," she said in a murmur, eyes on her shoes, her hand barely in my fingertips, in a ghost of a handshake. She seemed willing and agreeable, small head nodding as I listed her mundane duties all related to shelving, retrieving from the return bin, shelving again. She lost her battle against a tendency to fidget. Her brown hair formed dark parentheses around her small, round face, and stayed disarrayed despite her surreptitious attempts to smooth it down during pauses in our conversation. Round spectacles slipped down her nose, to be pushed back up again by a finger with chipped red nail polish. Yes, she said she liked to read. Everyone who applied for a job at the library said that. I glance up at my wall clock. It's almost closing time now. I pick up my office phone and dial the front desk extension. "Mrs. Pawelski, would you send her in now please?" At first, she checked books out in the evening only, after work. The last at Mrs. Pawelski's checkout station, she'd have her card at the ready, her reedy arms straining under volumes of fiction and nonfiction alike. Computer manuals or dragons and fair maidens: based on her rate of checkout and return, she read all of these with equal relish. I would catch glimpses of her drinking in her surroundings, gazing about as she moved through her day, long after the setting should have been familiar. I run my hands through my hair and over my face, sighing. I never wanted to be a boss. I love books, I love the library, I love the grey-haired checkout ladies in their vests with festive holiday embroidery and the little kids whose noses run at afternoon storytime. That's why I hire carefully, so I'll never have to fire anyone. There's a first time for everything, as my mother would say. I first noticed the return bin overflowing during a couple of busy weeks, but I didn't catch a moment to talk to her about it. When business did slow down, I went looking for her. I found her in the large print section. The summer sun, which had emptied the library to fill the parks and beaches, poured in through a high window like a spotlight, setting her in a glow surrounded by meandering dust motes. She sat amid a jumble of books, stacked like a haphazard fortress around her. She was cross-legged, absorbed in an adventure story, a small smile on her little round face. Her coffee-brown hair hung almost down to the pages as she bent over the book. I stood dumbstruck for a moment. I'd assumed she couldn't work out the Dewey Decimal System or that there was some other training deficiency we could fix right up. But I realized then that her adoration for all things written had spilled into the workday. As I tried to decide how a boss should feel about that, she suddenly looked up, wide-eyed and startled like a small, frightened animal. She gave a little gasp and slammed the book shut, causing a puff of dust to swirl in the sun. I went back to my own work, assuming she'd return to her duties and be diligent now that she'd been caught in the act. I was wrong. My phone buzzes with an internal call, yanking me back to the present and to the distasteful task at hand. It's Mrs. Pawelski. "Mr. Cahill, I found her. She'll be there in a moment." "Thanks." As the days passed after that first encounter, my employees increasingly filled my office, complaining about having to retrieve books from the return bin so other patrons could read. The library visitors demanded to know why they couldn't find the books they wanted. I called her in for a talk. My speech was severe. A kinder inner dialogue, maybe from a younger and more idealistic self, ran through my head like subtitles. "Leave your reading to your free time. There's work to be done here," I said. I think it's great that you like reading so much. That's just the kind of thing we like at the library, but please keep up with your work. I sounded like every boss I ever hated. She nodded hard and fast, as if by the force of her nodding she'd convince me -- or maybe herself -- that she'd be able to keep up. I was not convinced, and that time I was right. The time has come. She's here. She opens my door as little as possible, and squeezes her elfin frame through the gap. She takes a seat across from my desk, just on the edge of the chair. She looks at her hands and chips the polish off of one fingernail with another. "Hello --" I begin, her name cut off by a sudden bark-like cough, as I choke on the friendly familiarity such a greeting implies. "I think you know why you're here." A nod. "Your work hasn't improved despite several reminders. Now, you seem like an intelligent girl, and I know you're capable. But you just can't seem to keep your mind on it." Tell me what I can do to make this work out for you. I'm concerned, but I'd like to keep you on. Your love of reading is inspiring. Another nod. "That's why I'm afraid we have to let you go. I'm sorry." No, I don't mean that. Look, talk to me. Maybe we can find another job for you, maybe you could work the checkout on the weekends. What she says is so quiet I might have imagined the words and not actually heard them: "I'm sorry, too." Wait, I'm not done… She gets up and slips out the door just the way she slipped in. The library will be closing soon. Some management book said to always fire people toward the end of the day, so they can walk out at the normal time with everyone else. I try to finish up my own work but I can't stop thinking about her. It's not as if she's lazy, or malicious. She's got this desire to know things, anything. Something would just catch her eye, and she'd begin to soak up the words. She couldn't even shelve the annual reports in a timely fashion. She'd lose herself working out the complex facts and figures. I imagine she struggled with it like an addict. Maybe she had to talk herself down from an urge to pick up a book and read it. I wonder when I became the sort of person who could fire someone like her. I get my coat off the hook and leave my office. Most of the overhead lights have been shut off, making the bright lobby resemble an auditorium stage. Mrs. Pawelski stands behind her checkout machine, hesitant to shut it down. She waits for our little bookworm to come by with her usual armload. We spot her walking toward us from the employee break room at the back of the Young Adult section. Her gaze is down. Wait. Don't go. It's incredible that you read so much, you must be brilliant in so many things, we will find a place for you. My uncle works at the college, maybe he's got something you could do. I want to help you out, I admire your curiosity. I love books like that, or at least I did at one time. Hold up… She pauses in the lobby to put on her coat and sling her purse over her shoulder. As she walks through the doors with a heavy step, she has not one single book. ### This story was first published in Net Author's E2K, July 2004 ( www.netauthor.org/e2k ) |
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