Not Pastor Jeff, though. Pastor Jeff looks both ways before he crosses a street, wears his seat belt in his car, applies sunscreen in summer, and chooses pretzels instead of chocolate bars from the vending machine. I know. I have seen him do all of these things. I have seen that he jogs on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings which he must do to increase his longevity because that is the only reason a person would jog. All of those things are doctor things. But when you ask him why he drinks tap water, he says he has faith, which is a pastor thing. He says he knows God would not send poisoned water to Bourne. I ask him if he means God would not send poisoned water to Bourne again, since he already did once.
“That wasn’t God, Monday,” says Pastor Jeff.
“Well then how do you know whoever it was will not do it again?”
“Because I believe,” says Pastor Jeff.
“In God?”
“Yes, in God.”
“But what about last time?” I ask.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” says Pastor Jeff and all pastors everywhere when presented with completely logical but impossible-to-answer questions like mine.
“But if God will protect you from poisoned water, why will he not protect you from getting run over by a car?”
“I believe he will,” says Pastor Jeff.
“But if God will protect you from getting run over by a car,” I press, “why do you look both ways before you cross the street?”
“Because, Monday”—he winks at me—“that’s just common sense.”
Mab says you cannot argue with people about religion, and this is why.
After his tap water, Pastor Jeff turns, looks at the books I chose for him, and chuckles. “Impressive selections as usual, Madam Librarian.”
“You are welcome,” I say politely. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
I meant something having to do with library business, but he replies, “Yes, now that you mention it: I was hoping you could warn your mother about something.”
Warn her? My toes and knees start to buzz. “Why do not you do it?” I ask him. Pastor Jeff works in the room next door to my mother so sees her a lot almost every day.
“I don’t want to tell her at work.”
“Tell her what?”
“Well … word is we’re getting new neighbors.”
“Neighbors?” The buzzing catches fire. I am immediately alarmed, and Pastor Jeff looks worried because he has seen and heard me in all my states including the alarmed ones.
“No, no, not like next-door neighbors. Sorry, Monday. I mean we’ve heard there’s some new people moving into town. I don’t know who but—”
“Why?” I interrupt.
“Why don’t I know who?”
“Why are they moving here?”
Sometimes I ask the wrong question because the point is not what I think it is. But Pastor Jeff nods slowly. “I have no idea.”
I think of the other W questions you are supposed to answer at the start of an essay and ask, “Where?”
Pastor Jeff winces. “The library.”
“The library!”
“That’s what we heard.”
“My library?”
“That’s the one. That’s where the moving trucks went.”
I am dancing now, the buzzing flames in my toes turned to happy sparks. “You saw moving trucks at the library?”
“I didn’t. But others did.”
“It is reopening!” I am jumping and spinning. If it did not mean touching him, I would hug Pastor Jeff.
“No, Monday, that’s not—”
“They are moving all the books back in. They must be.”
“All the books are here.” He waves his hand around at them.
“The ones they took.”
“They sold those.”
“They bought them back.”
“Monday, I don’t think they’re reopening the library.” He is being very gentle of me. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here. I think—”
I am ready for Pastor Jeff to leave, but it is rude to say so, so I put on yellow oven mitts so I can push him out the door without touching him. “I will tell her.” I wave both yellow mitts goodbye as he stumbles outside. “I will tell my mother and everyone. They are reopening the library!”
* * *
There is still cereal in the cereal box, but it is in a bag and the bag is clear, so you can see what is in it and do not need a box to tell you, so I remove the bag and cut the box into an extra-large postcard. I do not put anything on the front because I plan to tack it up on our door so no one will be able to see that side.
On the back I write:
Dear Citizens of Bourne,
Good news! The library is relocating to the library.
Then I think that sentence might be unclear or confusing for some people so I cross it out and clarify:
The library is re-relocating to the library.
Your librarian,
Monday Mitchell
Many of the things that happen next can be chalked up to the fact that Pastor Jeff, a representative of both science and the Lord, has gotten my hopes up.
Three
Norma’s Bar is owned and operated by a man named Frank Fiedler. He doesn’t know why it’s called Norma’s. It was called that already when he bought it. From a man named Todd. It is why he hired my mother, though. He said she had no experience, too many little girls (we were kindergartners at the time), and a face that did not inspire people to drink. Is that a good thing or a bad thing, she said. He said wasn’t it her job to talk people out of drinking away their problems. Only during the day, she said. He said she would have to take off her dead husband’s shirts and wear a uniform and he knew she wouldn’t do it. She said bartenders don’t wear uniforms. She said Frank, I need the money. She said my name is on the place. He said off by a letter. She said closer than Frank.
She’s been working here ever since. Her second job.
When we were little, we all three used to hang out at the bar in the afternoon. There’s no one here who cares about underage kids in bars and no one to enforce it if anyone did. Besides, Nora had to work—everyone understood that—so we had to come along. Now though, Mab tutors after school, and Monday runs the library, but much of the time I still come in with my mother because this is my second job too. After I finish my first (homework), I do Frank’s accounting. They started as one and the same, in fact—I assigned myself Frank’s books as math practice in eighth grade—but now he pays me a little bit, and, Nora observes, every little bit is a little bit.
“Maybe you’ll be a CFO or something when you grow up,” Frank says this afternoon as I get organized.
I think of Chris Wohl saying maybe I’d be a therapist. Everyone’s thinking about me growing up today. There’s no way I’ll be a CFO either though. Too boring. I’d never do it as a career, only as a favor. If I didn’t do his books for him, Frank would do them himself—he doesn’t have enough money to hire someone who’s actually qualified—and he’s lousy at it.
It’s a quiet evening, good for bookkeeping. Ours is the sort of town where there’s only one bar, and it’s as likely to be packed at eleven a.m. as eleven p.m. Nora works only a few hours on weekdays, filling the ones that come between getting off work at the clinic and getting home to eat a late dinner with the three of us and get me ready for bed. She picks up more hours on the weekend, but these quiet afternoons hardly seem worth doing. That’s the deal she made with Frank though, and the guys who are here are always glad to see her.