A Good Librarian

Henry Tolinger had worked at the library for all of his life. In his time, nothing of note had changed except his eventual promotion to head librarian. Sure, things happened outside. There was always some new music which he cursed as it lingered by the door, breaking the solemn silence he thought the books should always enjoy. New presidents were elected; one of them was shot. Musicians were shot too. Henry saw it all from the words on the pages which he eventually placed in their respective shelves according to the Dewey Decimal System: The Beatles Anthology - 780, Music; An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963, 920, Biography; John Lennon: The Life - 920, Biography, or would it be Music? Henry knew his role in it all: to organize the world, and in that he took pride. Henry shuffled toward the history section, book-cart in tow, its one knobbly wheel dancing in aimless circles just above the hardwood floor with the thin creaks and whines of rusted metal. The library was a repurposed church. "Better for it," Henry grumbled blankly as he often did to himself to fill the stale air. He believed what he muttered, most of the time. "Damn window," was another truth he often whispered into the perfect silence as he walked past the large stained glass window at the back of the library. It was true that he hated it. It was also a true that his eyes could never resist it. The tall window painted a religious picture he never bothered to make sense of. He had read that a woman had an oracular vision looking into it as well, like a suburban Pythia, but all he ever saw was himself staring back. In that red-tinted, warped reflection of what he assumed was a saint, he didn't see the face of God, or the wings of an angel or the holy grail; whatever that woman was supposed to have seen. Instead, he saw his own crooked nose, tall forehead and a wriggling, worm-like mouth. He frowned and even that took a slinking form in the window. His face was one of cartoonish hilarity that made him shrug from eye-contact and hide behind his thickly rimmed glasses which he took off only to sleep. It was his own look that he shrugged away from now as he peeled his eyes from the red mirror. There were no mirrors in the library bathroom and none at his flat. There was hardly space for one back home. He was glad for it, though. As glad as Henry could have ever been said to be. Henry remembered a time before the library, though rarely and often unbidden. His father had been a reverend at the church in its final days, before the books; BB as Henry liked to call it. Reverand Tolinger had played an instrumental role in helping the church become a library. He embezzled money from the churches donation pool and skipped town, leaving none the wiser. Also leaving Henry. But Henry would never tell. No, no matter how bad that- "Bastard," Henry mumbled with his iron-wrought scowl as he passed the 200's with his crooked book-cart; it was the religion section that he had to keep robust according to the agreement of the church. He rounded the corner and a short girl, a child by the look of her, with short black hair done back in a headband and her frilly floral dress gave him a parting glance as she raised from crossed legs and took flight down the aisle into the next. *Surprised she wasn't already gone. Usually they're gone by the time they hear me.* Henry's frown deepened as he stacked his books and made his rounds. Though no longer a church in practice, the building still had its high columns, holy statues, and grandiose architecture. Above all, it was still a gathering place. A book club took place once a week in the converted back-office. Comfortable chairs, often filled, were set out all around for reading. Once a month the novice librarian, Kieth, a languid, shaggy teenager who always reeked of pot, played his guitar on the front steps. It wasn't Henry's decision, but Kieth was friendly, and a decent enough librarian at that. *It's only once a month,* Henry thought as the guitar grinded at his ears. When his father left, Henry became a worn heirloom of sorts; something that once held value, but now you just can't seem to throw away. Family to family he went, close to distant relatives, even for a time with his third cousins, twice removed. He never felt wanted but he never understood being wanted anyways. Wherever he went, so did his books, and wherever there were books there were dreams. Henry had big dreams. Dreams of places, dreams of adventures, dreams of better things; but they all stayed as that - dreams. He was never talkative, always choosing a book over a conversation, an omnibus over a friend. When he returned to his closest family, the ones that lived in the same town as he had lived with his father, he discovered that the church was being repurposed. He was encouraged by all to join in on whatever it was, almost forcibly. At first it was pride that lead him; the constant encouragement of his aunt and uncle all the way down to letters form his third cousins. Later, he realized, it was an urgency for them to be finally rid of his inescapable nomadic weight. "Showed them. Showed them all," he said through stale, sneering lips as he hefted another book to the shelf. The Interpretation of Dreams - 150, Psychology. Not a book he had ever bothered with. He didn't care much for psychology. He claimed that it tried to reveal things that ought not to be revealed. Henry had never known his mother except through his fathers anger. Henry had killed her somehow, how he wouldn't know until years later; he hadn't even been born. The way his father dashed plates from the wall and screamed like a baritone banshee until falling asleep on the couch, he had always made Henry think he truly had done something bad. It seemed like the greatest injustice anyone could ever do, whatever it was he did, and Henry knew a lot of stories and a lot of villains. "Mister?" A small voice peeked from the empty seam in the bookshelf around Henry's waist. Henry leaned down to meet the speaker. In the place he had been meaning to fill with Roman history was a little girl's face, the same girl as before. "Mister, I'm looking for my Mom. I don't know where she went." Henry left his book-cart, a rare thing, without a second glance and walked to the other side of the bookshelf. "When did you last see her?" Henry said awkwardly. His specialty was in organizing books, not handling children. "Umm... I don't know. I don't know where she is." The girl seemed on the verge of tears. Henry did not know what he would do if she started to cry. Henry lowered to one knee painfully. "What's... Your name?" "Belle." "My name is Henry," Henry said. There was silence. Henry licked his old parchment lips. "Do you like to read?" She nodded. "You can pick whatever book you like. We'll... Um, find your mother, Belle." As Belle read, Henry made a few calls to the women of the book club and asked around for a woman with a daughter named Belle. He got hold of the mother and she was quickly on her way. Almost and hour went by as Henry read to Belle. At first he did so timidly, berating himself for the cracking of his old, unused voice, eventually giving an array of voices and expressions to the characters drawn on the pages. He had never read a picture book before. He quite liked it. They almost made it through the top shelf of the children's section when a panicked woman, a face red and wet with tears, ran through the door. She thanked Henry profusely and mother and daughter hugged before him. A lump sat in Henry's throat, happy for them, so happy he could not speak. He said goodbye to Belle, and Belle to him. Henry went back to his book-cart, ordering and sorting. He walked past the window and saw something different, something he didn't recognize. A smile reflected in the red-stained glass, against his wrinkles, against himself. It was warped and twisted and bent, but it was a smile. It felt good to smile. Belle was welcome back anytime, and she did come back. Many times. Belle runs the library with her family now. In place of the stained glass which Henry so hated is a framed picture of him, smiling his crooked, toothy smile that everyone grew to love.

Henry Tolinger was a good librarian.