to other pages. She squished her face against the wall and saw that it was a book, the spine flattened against the wall (like her face). That poor book binding. This poor, dumb archive. The book gave a little when she pulled, but it was stuck fast. She put her shoulder to the case and leaned into it.
Would she die under the weight of the fallen bookcase?
Just as she was mentally preparing her obituary, the book came free.
âBookâ was maybe too generous. The pages were between browning cardboard covers, tied together with leather string. She opened it carefully. The neat, swirly script inside read Never You Mind , which appeared to be the title, and it was signed âR. Butcher.â
R. Butcher? Helen racked her brain for why that name sounded familiar. Butcher was a pretty common name in some parts of Kentucky. Maybe this was something squirreled away from the historical society; there was an unspoken territorial war when it came to genealogical materials. There were no library markings on the bookâno call number, no cataloging information, definitely no bar code. Lou probably didnât even know how long it had been back there. The shelf had been there as long as Helen had, and the archives were located in the room that had been the original library.
She flipped through a few pages of Never You Mind . For all Helen knew, it was one of Louâs nieceâs fake-Victorian poetry chapbooks; there were, remarkably, more than one. It didnât look like poetry, though. It looked like a diary with dates and barely legible writing on some pages, and columns of names and numbers on others. She should look it up. Also, she should not be sitting on the dusty floor in black pants.
She hopped up and brought the book over to the computer. She didnât hold out much hope, but she started searching the catalog anyway.
Before she could scroll through the Boolean nightmare that was Never You Mind , she heard people. People! In the archives! Who ever heard of such a thing!
Lou was going to be disappointed.
Especially when she saw who it was.
She knew the dean of the libraries, and she had met the president of Pembroke College once at a new-faculty mixer. She recognized some folks from Willow Springs: the public library director, the owner of the Daily Drip. And here they all were, in the archives.
âHi,â she said brightly. Because there were people in here! She really hoped they didnât have very complicated reference questions that would test her understanding of Louâs organizational system. Undergrad questions, no problem. The college president was probably another story.
âHelen!â Dean Pritchart said, looking surprised. âNo Lou?â
âSheâs . . .â Helen hesitated. It certainly wasnât the end of the world for the woman to have a doctorâs appointment. And yet Helen felt guilty for telling them Lou wasnât here. Like she was ratting out a colleague. And Lou would probably never leave the archive again.
âSheâs right here!â Lou came bounding in after the crowd of dignitaries, her purse flopping behind her. âI just got your message. Thank you so much for coming by.â
Lou shook hands, then scurried behind the desk, hip-checking Helen out of the way. Then she launched into a speech about the age of the archives facility (âItâs almost an archive of an archive!â) and the needs of the college community and the potential partnership with the public library and the historical society. It sounded very polished, if a bit rushed. And while she talked, she waved Helen away. Helen barely had time to grab her calendar before Lou was walking her out the door. âThank you, Helen,â Lou said, even though she had already turned around to the crowd of dignitaries.
Lou was notoriously protective of her archives, but this was a lot, even for her. Helen hovered in the doorway and listened to Lou talk about the
Would she die under the weight of the fallen bookcase?
Just as she was mentally preparing her obituary, the book came free.
âBookâ was maybe too generous. The pages were between browning cardboard covers, tied together with leather string. She opened it carefully. The neat, swirly script inside read Never You Mind , which appeared to be the title, and it was signed âR. Butcher.â
R. Butcher? Helen racked her brain for why that name sounded familiar. Butcher was a pretty common name in some parts of Kentucky. Maybe this was something squirreled away from the historical society; there was an unspoken territorial war when it came to genealogical materials. There were no library markings on the bookâno call number, no cataloging information, definitely no bar code. Lou probably didnât even know how long it had been back there. The shelf had been there as long as Helen had, and the archives were located in the room that had been the original library.
She flipped through a few pages of Never You Mind . For all Helen knew, it was one of Louâs nieceâs fake-Victorian poetry chapbooks; there were, remarkably, more than one. It didnât look like poetry, though. It looked like a diary with dates and barely legible writing on some pages, and columns of names and numbers on others. She should look it up. Also, she should not be sitting on the dusty floor in black pants.
She hopped up and brought the book over to the computer. She didnât hold out much hope, but she started searching the catalog anyway.
Before she could scroll through the Boolean nightmare that was Never You Mind , she heard people. People! In the archives! Who ever heard of such a thing!
Lou was going to be disappointed.
Especially when she saw who it was.
She knew the dean of the libraries, and she had met the president of Pembroke College once at a new-faculty mixer. She recognized some folks from Willow Springs: the public library director, the owner of the Daily Drip. And here they all were, in the archives.
âHi,â she said brightly. Because there were people in here! She really hoped they didnât have very complicated reference questions that would test her understanding of Louâs organizational system. Undergrad questions, no problem. The college president was probably another story.
âHelen!â Dean Pritchart said, looking surprised. âNo Lou?â
âSheâs . . .â Helen hesitated. It certainly wasnât the end of the world for the woman to have a doctorâs appointment. And yet Helen felt guilty for telling them Lou wasnât here. Like she was ratting out a colleague. And Lou would probably never leave the archive again.
âSheâs right here!â Lou came bounding in after the crowd of dignitaries, her purse flopping behind her. âI just got your message. Thank you so much for coming by.â
Lou shook hands, then scurried behind the desk, hip-checking Helen out of the way. Then she launched into a speech about the age of the archives facility (âItâs almost an archive of an archive!â) and the needs of the college community and the potential partnership with the public library and the historical society. It sounded very polished, if a bit rushed. And while she talked, she waved Helen away. Helen barely had time to grab her calendar before Lou was walking her out the door. âThank you, Helen,â Lou said, even though she had already turned around to the crowd of dignitaries.
Lou was notoriously protective of her archives, but this was a lot, even for her. Helen hovered in the doorway and listened to Lou talk about the
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