intensifying, and he certainly didn’t belong near children. But Meg liked Albert, and she didn’t like being ordered around. So for now, until he proved him- self dangerous, he stayed. With mental hospitals closing their doors all over the country, where else were people like Albert supposed to go?
“ Aaaheeem! ” Albert suddenly ticked loud enough to clear a gorilla out of his throat.
Meg tapped her plastic pen against the Plexiglas a few times, but Albert didn’t notice. He took a deep breath that looked like it was going to erupt into a howl. Not now, Albert, she thought. I’m in no damn mood for somebody else’s crazy. She banged her fist until the office wall shivered. From the other side, Al- bert stopped mid-breath. Now they were both stand- ing, the Plexiglas between them.
He was six-foot-five, and about 180 pounds. She was five-foot-nothing in three-inch heels. She knit her brows and slowly shook her head. On the other side of the plastic wall, Albert blushed. “Sorry, Ms. Wintrob,” he mouthed, and sulked back into his chair.
Meg sat back down. Usually she shared her office with the business officer and deputy librarian, but they quit when the city cut their salaries last month. The town was still trying to hire their replacements. The rest of her staff was all volunteer, and they tended to gather at the reception desk, where they could drink coffee and read books in peace without Meg Wintrob’s probing eye.
Meg lifted her Publishers Weekly and took a bite out of her soggy sandwich. Fenstad, she was thinking. There was a time that she’d loved him, but she couldn’t remember it right now. These days when she saw him, she wanted to kick him. This made her think of the bird this morning, which in turn made her eyes watery. The brainless bird.
Five minutes later she looked at the clock. It was edg- ing toward two p.m., and she had to get ready for story hour. She tossed her mostly untouched sandwich into the trash, and stood. Outside, Albert was quiet. All she could hear was the clickety-clack of his fingers typing
against the keyboard, searching, no doubt, for photos of Andersonville. She tapped on the Plexiglas and nod- ded at him, hoping he’d behave while she was gone. Then she opened the door to the children’s library.
The walls of the children’s library were painted like a cloudy sky, and at the room’s center was a circle of inter- connected orange plastic chairs designed to look like the Barbapapas. This children’s room was Meg’s pride. All day it hummed with life. Right now toddlers were wob- bling across the rainbow-patterned carpet while seven mothers and two fathers jabbered about their part-time jobs, the Farmer’s Almanac predictions for the coming winter, and the good old days before babies, when six
p.m. had meant cocktail hour.
Meg opened Sarah Shey’s picture book about Iowa called Sky All Around, and began to read. Every time the book mentioned the sky, Meg pointed at the white cumulus clouds painted against the blue ceiling. All except Isabelle Nero pointed, too. Isabelle contentedly gummed her index finger like it was a chew toy.
Isabelle’s mother, Caitlin, was young, blond, and button-cute. She sewed Isabelle’s pretty dresses, worked mornings selling advertising space for the Corpus Christi Sentinel , and gave her husband nightly back rubs. Meg knew this because Caitlin’s husband was Graham Nero. Graham brokered long distance for a Boston-based investment firm, and in his spare time ogled cocktail waitresses. As their rendezvous he’d chosen room 69 at the Motel 6. Meg had done it partly for the thrill, but mostly for a reaction from Fenstad. Sex the first few times had been fantastic, most likely because she hadn’t liked the guy enough to hold back. Still, if you’re sleep- ing with a man, eventually you have to look him in the eye, and respect him. With Graham, that hadn’t been
possible. She’d looked at him, and cringed.
Fenstad found out within
“ Aaaheeem! ” Albert suddenly ticked loud enough to clear a gorilla out of his throat.
Meg tapped her plastic pen against the Plexiglas a few times, but Albert didn’t notice. He took a deep breath that looked like it was going to erupt into a howl. Not now, Albert, she thought. I’m in no damn mood for somebody else’s crazy. She banged her fist until the office wall shivered. From the other side, Al- bert stopped mid-breath. Now they were both stand- ing, the Plexiglas between them.
He was six-foot-five, and about 180 pounds. She was five-foot-nothing in three-inch heels. She knit her brows and slowly shook her head. On the other side of the plastic wall, Albert blushed. “Sorry, Ms. Wintrob,” he mouthed, and sulked back into his chair.
Meg sat back down. Usually she shared her office with the business officer and deputy librarian, but they quit when the city cut their salaries last month. The town was still trying to hire their replacements. The rest of her staff was all volunteer, and they tended to gather at the reception desk, where they could drink coffee and read books in peace without Meg Wintrob’s probing eye.
Meg lifted her Publishers Weekly and took a bite out of her soggy sandwich. Fenstad, she was thinking. There was a time that she’d loved him, but she couldn’t remember it right now. These days when she saw him, she wanted to kick him. This made her think of the bird this morning, which in turn made her eyes watery. The brainless bird.
Five minutes later she looked at the clock. It was edg- ing toward two p.m., and she had to get ready for story hour. She tossed her mostly untouched sandwich into the trash, and stood. Outside, Albert was quiet. All she could hear was the clickety-clack of his fingers typing
against the keyboard, searching, no doubt, for photos of Andersonville. She tapped on the Plexiglas and nod- ded at him, hoping he’d behave while she was gone. Then she opened the door to the children’s library.
The walls of the children’s library were painted like a cloudy sky, and at the room’s center was a circle of inter- connected orange plastic chairs designed to look like the Barbapapas. This children’s room was Meg’s pride. All day it hummed with life. Right now toddlers were wob- bling across the rainbow-patterned carpet while seven mothers and two fathers jabbered about their part-time jobs, the Farmer’s Almanac predictions for the coming winter, and the good old days before babies, when six
p.m. had meant cocktail hour.
Meg opened Sarah Shey’s picture book about Iowa called Sky All Around, and began to read. Every time the book mentioned the sky, Meg pointed at the white cumulus clouds painted against the blue ceiling. All except Isabelle Nero pointed, too. Isabelle contentedly gummed her index finger like it was a chew toy.
Isabelle’s mother, Caitlin, was young, blond, and button-cute. She sewed Isabelle’s pretty dresses, worked mornings selling advertising space for the Corpus Christi Sentinel , and gave her husband nightly back rubs. Meg knew this because Caitlin’s husband was Graham Nero. Graham brokered long distance for a Boston-based investment firm, and in his spare time ogled cocktail waitresses. As their rendezvous he’d chosen room 69 at the Motel 6. Meg had done it partly for the thrill, but mostly for a reaction from Fenstad. Sex the first few times had been fantastic, most likely because she hadn’t liked the guy enough to hold back. Still, if you’re sleep- ing with a man, eventually you have to look him in the eye, and respect him. With Graham, that hadn’t been
possible. She’d looked at him, and cringed.
Fenstad found out within
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