Read Online Mayumi and the Sea of Happiness by Jennifer Tseng - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Tseng
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I felt a moment of envy for her practical outlook, immediately followed by a surge of pity for her lack of relationship with the young man.
“But what if he never comes back?” she asked once more, her well-tended hands resting gently on the steering wheel. “Or what if he does? Then what?”
“He’ll come back,” I said, my vision of his return now so exact that I felt no need for verification. “And when he does, I’ll be at the ready.”
I said this as if speaking of a storm for which I had long been preparing. My hatches were battened, my provisions set aside; whether the storm was on its way or simply imagined, there was nothing left for me to do but wait.
W INTER
S omewhere the last leaf let go its stem and the snow fell fast upon all of us. The director took down the “Island Memories” calendar and replaced it with “Our Oceans’ Most Endangered Species,” whose local publisher had zealously donated copies for each of the librarians. I went on dutifully making miso and noodles, taking my sly morning walks, I went on ecstatically composing crass questions. I went on processing books with such fixed passion that when at last my young Odysseus returned, I was oblivious to his entry, so engrossed was I in the covering of young adult paperbacks with plastic laminate—my bland, unbeautiful weaving. Unnerving to think that he slipped past while I was smoothing an air bubble out with the bone folder. If it weren’t for Constance Whiting, who softly cleared her throat as she pressed the January issue of
Elle
like a cold lover to her cashmere bosom, I might never have seen him browsing the DVDs with his startlingly large back to me. Though the library thermostat was set to seventy-six, I felt chill. My many daily observations and nightly recollections notwithstanding, I wasn’t altogether sure it was him.
Beneath his black, unbuttoned coat, he was wearing an unusually filthy white T-shirt untucked, filthy jeans, and a stalwart pair of muddy blond boots. He had the look of a day laborer. His hair was longer, more disheveled than I had ever seen it, and most startling of all, when he turned to the side, was his girth. His chest, his back, his torso, were a man’s. If it was him, he had grown. Anyone who has known a child will recognize the sensation, the absolute shock and disbelief one feels upon encountering a child who has, since your last encounter, changed so drastically that he no longer looks like himself.
Nella shuffled in holding a chocolate bar in one hand, a large bag of cheese puffs in the other, and distractedly surveyed the circulation area. She, who had once been of the “I don’t need a break” variety, seemed to have made a resolution to reverse her previous behavior. Indeed it was the time of year to be resolute. Before she could reach her desk, I intercepted. I appealed to her in as much of a whisper as my excitement would allow. “Help! Is that him? I can’t tell!”
Nella peered over her glasses at the him. She knew exactly who I meant. “Let’s find out.” She quite generously set down her snacks, walked purposefully to the DVD corner and began to straighten Drama, which was adjacent to Comedy, the section in which the youth in question stood browsing. She shifted a chunk of movies decisively from one shelf to another then pulled two DVDs in a rather convincing show and came back. “Dreams really do come true,” she admitted briskly, sat down, and began at once to unwrap her snacks.
Before I could process her report, the young man appeared at the front desk. I felt keenly that the encounter I had been longing for with such fear and trepidation would take place too quickly. I felt the violent onslaught of its ending before it began. There was now no mistaking his face. I was lobotomized by the sight of it. I could not recall a single question from my absurdly long queue nor the appropriate sequence of words one ought to use to greet a patron. Neither did he say hello, which
“But what if he never comes back?” she asked once more, her well-tended hands resting gently on the steering wheel. “Or what if he does? Then what?”
“He’ll come back,” I said, my vision of his return now so exact that I felt no need for verification. “And when he does, I’ll be at the ready.”
I said this as if speaking of a storm for which I had long been preparing. My hatches were battened, my provisions set aside; whether the storm was on its way or simply imagined, there was nothing left for me to do but wait.
W INTER
S omewhere the last leaf let go its stem and the snow fell fast upon all of us. The director took down the “Island Memories” calendar and replaced it with “Our Oceans’ Most Endangered Species,” whose local publisher had zealously donated copies for each of the librarians. I went on dutifully making miso and noodles, taking my sly morning walks, I went on ecstatically composing crass questions. I went on processing books with such fixed passion that when at last my young Odysseus returned, I was oblivious to his entry, so engrossed was I in the covering of young adult paperbacks with plastic laminate—my bland, unbeautiful weaving. Unnerving to think that he slipped past while I was smoothing an air bubble out with the bone folder. If it weren’t for Constance Whiting, who softly cleared her throat as she pressed the January issue of
Elle
like a cold lover to her cashmere bosom, I might never have seen him browsing the DVDs with his startlingly large back to me. Though the library thermostat was set to seventy-six, I felt chill. My many daily observations and nightly recollections notwithstanding, I wasn’t altogether sure it was him.
Beneath his black, unbuttoned coat, he was wearing an unusually filthy white T-shirt untucked, filthy jeans, and a stalwart pair of muddy blond boots. He had the look of a day laborer. His hair was longer, more disheveled than I had ever seen it, and most startling of all, when he turned to the side, was his girth. His chest, his back, his torso, were a man’s. If it was him, he had grown. Anyone who has known a child will recognize the sensation, the absolute shock and disbelief one feels upon encountering a child who has, since your last encounter, changed so drastically that he no longer looks like himself.
Nella shuffled in holding a chocolate bar in one hand, a large bag of cheese puffs in the other, and distractedly surveyed the circulation area. She, who had once been of the “I don’t need a break” variety, seemed to have made a resolution to reverse her previous behavior. Indeed it was the time of year to be resolute. Before she could reach her desk, I intercepted. I appealed to her in as much of a whisper as my excitement would allow. “Help! Is that him? I can’t tell!”
Nella peered over her glasses at the him. She knew exactly who I meant. “Let’s find out.” She quite generously set down her snacks, walked purposefully to the DVD corner and began to straighten Drama, which was adjacent to Comedy, the section in which the youth in question stood browsing. She shifted a chunk of movies decisively from one shelf to another then pulled two DVDs in a rather convincing show and came back. “Dreams really do come true,” she admitted briskly, sat down, and began at once to unwrap her snacks.
Before I could process her report, the young man appeared at the front desk. I felt keenly that the encounter I had been longing for with such fear and trepidation would take place too quickly. I felt the violent onslaught of its ending before it began. There was now no mistaking his face. I was lobotomized by the sight of it. I could not recall a single question from my absurdly long queue nor the appropriate sequence of words one ought to use to greet a patron. Neither did he say hello, which
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