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Authors: Elizabeth Rosner
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mouthpiece.
“Tonight,” he added.
Mrs. Richardson pushed her glasses a fraction of an inch higher toward the slight depression at the bridge of her nose, and Sophie couldtell she was counting the seconds. A little blond girl and her mother were approaching the counter, each cradling an armful of books.
“That would be great,” she said into the phone.
“Yes, glittering!” Henry said.
B EFORE HER SHIFT ended, Sophie found herself unable to resist a peek at what Martin Longboat had been reading. The area where he had been sitting was empty of every sign of him except for one book, lying facedown on a stool he’d been using as a table. When she turned it over and read the title, she felt rooted in place for several minutes, losing track of what she was supposed to do with this object. She imagined she could detect Martin’s fingerprints on the pages, as though he had been reading a text printed in Braille. Modern Jupiter, the jacket said. The Story of Charles Proteus Steinmetz .
And then Martin was standing beside her, though she’d been sure he had left the building. Fighting an urge to turn away, she looked into his eyes, dark as obsidian, pupils and irises merging together, and with a bright gleam that made her think of the last point of light at the center of a TV screen.
Sophie’s eyes were green, flecked with gold. Almost the color of the river , Martin thought, and there it was, a miraculous current of intimacy. He scanned back to his earliest memories of seeing her, when they sat a full three rows apart in homeroom. He could picture the texture of her winter coat, the dark waves of her hair.
He said, “I used to watch you sometimes between classes. I’ve always liked the way you walk.”
“How do I walk?”
He thought about the lineup of jocks at the high school, the ones who seemed to have nothing better to do than lean against the walls, ogling as the girls went by. Martin hated the idea that she might think he was one of them.
“Don’t get self-conscious about it,” Martin said, looking away. “Forget I said anything.”
Sophie held the Steinmetz book and let her hands change the subject. “He looks like someone related to me,” she said, pointing at the jacket photograph. “But I never knew my grandparents.”
There was a thicker space between them now, filled by the nearby sounds of a mother shushing a giggling child. Sophie often wished the library could allow for more laughter.
“What about your grandparents?” she said, testing her courage. “Did they speak to you in another language?”
Martin didn’t want to answer yet. He pulled a spiral notebook from his bag and opened to a pair of pages on which a half-constructed bridge was sketched across them both. There weren’t any words, but the drawing was one of his favorites, filaments stopping in midair.
“Unfinished spider web?” she asked.
Martin shook his head, tucking the pages away and heading toward the exit. “Maybe I’ll tell you some other time.”
Carrying the Steinmetz book to the reshelving cart she had emptied, she saw it also held one more book, The History of Mohawk Skywalkers. A photo of construction workers sitting casually atop a giant steel-framed building graced its cover . Sophie promised herself she would study thebook on her own, when no one was else was looking over her shoulder. Bridges and skyscrapers. Modern Jupiter .
The reference area of the library darkened behind her as she watched out the door for her mother’s car streaming through the rain. On the way home, passing storefront windows along State Street and the heart of downtown, she was startled to notice so many empty ones with signs saying CLOSING OUT and EVERYTHING MUST GO .
Some disturbances were becoming impossible to ignore. Where every streetlight might have once symbolized new life, the future appeared to be turning upside down. Was this the promise of change made by that blackout, a warning of what else could go wrong?
“Tonight,” he added.
Mrs. Richardson pushed her glasses a fraction of an inch higher toward the slight depression at the bridge of her nose, and Sophie couldtell she was counting the seconds. A little blond girl and her mother were approaching the counter, each cradling an armful of books.
“That would be great,” she said into the phone.
“Yes, glittering!” Henry said.
B EFORE HER SHIFT ended, Sophie found herself unable to resist a peek at what Martin Longboat had been reading. The area where he had been sitting was empty of every sign of him except for one book, lying facedown on a stool he’d been using as a table. When she turned it over and read the title, she felt rooted in place for several minutes, losing track of what she was supposed to do with this object. She imagined she could detect Martin’s fingerprints on the pages, as though he had been reading a text printed in Braille. Modern Jupiter, the jacket said. The Story of Charles Proteus Steinmetz .
And then Martin was standing beside her, though she’d been sure he had left the building. Fighting an urge to turn away, she looked into his eyes, dark as obsidian, pupils and irises merging together, and with a bright gleam that made her think of the last point of light at the center of a TV screen.
Sophie’s eyes were green, flecked with gold. Almost the color of the river , Martin thought, and there it was, a miraculous current of intimacy. He scanned back to his earliest memories of seeing her, when they sat a full three rows apart in homeroom. He could picture the texture of her winter coat, the dark waves of her hair.
He said, “I used to watch you sometimes between classes. I’ve always liked the way you walk.”
“How do I walk?”
He thought about the lineup of jocks at the high school, the ones who seemed to have nothing better to do than lean against the walls, ogling as the girls went by. Martin hated the idea that she might think he was one of them.
“Don’t get self-conscious about it,” Martin said, looking away. “Forget I said anything.”
Sophie held the Steinmetz book and let her hands change the subject. “He looks like someone related to me,” she said, pointing at the jacket photograph. “But I never knew my grandparents.”
There was a thicker space between them now, filled by the nearby sounds of a mother shushing a giggling child. Sophie often wished the library could allow for more laughter.
“What about your grandparents?” she said, testing her courage. “Did they speak to you in another language?”
Martin didn’t want to answer yet. He pulled a spiral notebook from his bag and opened to a pair of pages on which a half-constructed bridge was sketched across them both. There weren’t any words, but the drawing was one of his favorites, filaments stopping in midair.
“Unfinished spider web?” she asked.
Martin shook his head, tucking the pages away and heading toward the exit. “Maybe I’ll tell you some other time.”
Carrying the Steinmetz book to the reshelving cart she had emptied, she saw it also held one more book, The History of Mohawk Skywalkers. A photo of construction workers sitting casually atop a giant steel-framed building graced its cover . Sophie promised herself she would study thebook on her own, when no one was else was looking over her shoulder. Bridges and skyscrapers. Modern Jupiter .
The reference area of the library darkened behind her as she watched out the door for her mother’s car streaming through the rain. On the way home, passing storefront windows along State Street and the heart of downtown, she was startled to notice so many empty ones with signs saying CLOSING OUT and EVERYTHING MUST GO .
Some disturbances were becoming impossible to ignore. Where every streetlight might have once symbolized new life, the future appeared to be turning upside down. Was this the promise of change made by that blackout, a warning of what else could go wrong?
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