A work of fiction that imagines a world where one of the most dangerous job titles one could have is — Librarian…
by: Phebe Jewell
Yesterday afternoon another librarian was arrested, the third this week. Julie studies the woman’s photo in the paper. An older white woman: thin, elfin face, framed by a pixie cut and round, rimless glasses. She looks like someone you’d meet in a suburban book club, or volunteering to read to first graders.
There would be more pre-entry protocols at work today. Body scanners for sure, probably strip searches, like the last time this many had been arrested. Better leave early to make time to be processed before opening the library at 10 am.
Not that there would be many people waiting for Julie to unlock the library doors. The unhoused who frequented the library were among the first to be removed from the city, bused to the border and dumped. Now even the most loyal patrons drop by only to pick up books on hold. No one comes to browse or read, perhaps because they, like Julie and the few remaining librarians, can’t bear to see the emptied shelves. History and Political Science had been hit hardest at first, but now the bans identify novels and poetry as potentially subversive.
The young guard waiting for her outside is gentler than most. He searches her bag, patting her down before nodding to let her in. Not even a body scan, Must be a new recruit.
Before she unlocks the doors, Julie surveys the library, the glass walls, the wooden ceiling bowed like the underbelly of a great ship or ark. The young guard nods. Julie switches on the lights and pulls out the cart from behind the checkout desk. In the old days, dozens of carts loaded with books waited to be reshelved. Even with the help of volunteers it would take several hours to put all the books back. Now at most a dozen books huddle on the top shelf of a single cart.
She holds up an English translation of Neruda’s Residence on Earth. All the Spanish-language books were removed months ago. She imagines the words floating around the library, wondering where their home had gone. Tierra. Fuegos. Las estrellas. La vida. Amor. Do they sense the presence of each other, or the old poet, stringing them together with kind and gentle hands?
Soon this book will be rounded up, boxed, and incinerated. Where could those orphaned words go? Would they float like their Spanish cousins, unmoored? Or would they remember they once formed an alliance with other words, forging unforgettable phrases and images?
The young guard now stands facing the street, his back to the books. Julie slips to the break room, tugging a small envelope from inside the lining of her coat, quickly sliding it into a folder before returning to the front counter. The guard turns, and she waves, pushing the cart toward the stacks. The young man waves back and turns to face the street.
Julie heads for what used to be the Philosophy section, now holding biographies of select dead American presidents. Pulling out a large print collection of George Washington’s speeches, she slips the first text from her envelope — King’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” As she rounds the corner to the YA Lit section, the door swings open. The first patron of the day heads toward the Mystery section, closely followed by the guard.
Within minutes Julie is at the front desk, scanning two Agatha Christie novels — The A.B.C. Murders and Evil Under the Sun — for an old woman wearing sunglasses despite the winter light. “I’ll be back soon for more Christie,” the woman smiles. “I just can’t get enough of her.”
There is something familiar about the woman’s voice. Julie studies her face, wondering if they met at a meeting. Hard to tell, it is always so dark.
Julie looks up as the guard steps inside after escorting the old woman to the library doors. “Would you like some tea?” she asks.
He nods, and when she brings two cups and a plate of cookies, the young man smiles.
“You are so kind. You remind me of my mother.” Flushing, he adds, “My name is Anders.”
Julie sips her tea, studying his smooth, freckled face, peach fuzz, and pimples fighting for control of his chin. He can’t be more than 20 or 21. This reality is all he knows. And yet, there is a sweetness to Anders that reminds her of the before times. A pleaser, a middle child, or perhaps the doted-on baby of the family?
“Tell me about her,” Julie says, leaning back, as he regales her with stories of a childhood in a mountain valley, far from towns and cities. He is the youngest, an ‘oops’ baby born when all his siblings were in middle school. School was okay. What he loved most was hiking through the alpine forests. “Miss Julie, you would love it up there. The trees are hundreds of years old, and the air is so fresh.”
Julie laughs. “I’m terrified of heights, so I’ll take your word for it. I do love the woods, though,” she sighs. “I never seem to find the time to get out into nature.”
“You should.” Anders dips a cookie into his tea. “I feel so connected to everything and everyone when I’m there. It’s like time doesn’t exist, you know what I mean?”
Julie nods. As much as she loves the energy of the city, she values time walking through old growth forests, breathing in fir and pine, the universe inside her expanding with each step.
The next morning Anders is already waiting for Julie in front of the library as she rounds the corner, calling out “Good Morning, Miss Julie!” Unlocking the door, he holds it open with a flourish. “How are you today?” he beams.
Luckily the faded copy of Lorde’s essay “Poetry is Not a Luxury” is tucked in her coat lining, right over her left breast. Even if he pats her down he would never touch her there.
The morning settles into a quiet routine with only a few patrons rushing in to pick up items they had put on hold: gardening books, a history of the Crusades, and a biography of Woodrow Wilson. Julie makes tea, offering a cup to Anders who gratefully accepts. She can tell he is in a chatty mood, but she wants to make sure the Lorde is delivered in case the woman in the dark glasses appears.
“Oh, I almost forgot! I haven’t shelved these books.” Julie jumps up as if she had just remembered. Anders gives her a silly wave as she rolls the cart around the stacks.
After first hitting the Self Help and Fantasy aisles, Julie turns the cart toward Mystery. She easily finds the massive Agatha Christie collection. Scanning the titles, she chooses And Then There Were None as the most likely pick for her fellow conspirator.
The afternoon passes quietly, with Anders keeping watching at the library door. The last patron of the day checks out a book about parenting the ADHD child and leaves in a hurry.
When Julie arrives the next morning, a new guard waits in front of the library. Solid, muscular, older, he demands Julie show him her identity papers before patting her down.
Unlocking the door, he points to the Women’s bathroom. “Ma’am, we’ll have to strip search you. New orders.”
Julie smiles at the officer. “Of course,” she says, “I’m so glad you are taking these precautions. Thank you for keeping us safe.” The guard does not smile back.
Stepping into the bathroom, Julie keeps her eyes steady in front of her. No sense in asking about Anders. How could she have been so careless? She let down her guard and this sweet boy paid for it.
Julie removes her coat, placing it on a hook by the mirror. She slowly unbuttons her blouse, listening for lost words to settle her. Tierra. Vida. Amor. Closing her eyes, she sees Anders climbing up a mountain switchback, climbing back and forth, up and down, until he reaches the summit. Cielo.
The new guard clears his throat. Julie nods, shrugging out of her blouse. She can do this. She has no choice.
Phebe Jewell’s work appears or is forthcoming in numerous journals, including Pithead Chapel, MoonPark Review, The Disappointed Housewife, Bending Genres, New World Writing, Your Impossible Voice, Reckon Review, Does It Have Pockets?, and elsewhere. A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers for the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, a nonprofit providing college courses for incarcerated women, trans-identified and gender nonconforming people in Washington State. Read her at https://phebejewellwrites.com.
