And you know the way they squeeze those bushy eyebrows of theirs all
together.” Mrs. Place wrinkled her face in an excellent imitation of them and Olivia giggled.
“Those two old birds come into my shop ’bout every day, but I never said a
word to them except, what can I get you ladies today? So it might as well have
been the broom what piped up and offered to organize their library for them, that’s how surprised they were. But I kept on; I don’t tell too many stretchers, but once I get started on one I’m pretty good at it. I said that in my younger days
I’d worked at one of the biggest libraries in New York City, so I know just about
everything there is to know about cataloging books. Said I’d be more than happy
to take care of it for them. Course I couldn’t possibly do the work anywhere but
right here at home. So from now on they’re going to bring a new stack of books
to the shop every Monday morning and I’ll give those books back to them the next week, with their catalog cards all written up.” She finally paused for air and
to give Olivia an uncertain look. “You’re gonna figure out how to do that, ain’t
you? Your daddy always said he hardly knew what you looked like, the way you
always had your nose in a book.”
Olivia stared at Jettie, feeling the same way she had that day in the river, when Mourning saved her from falling. She wasn’t used to anyone doing
anything for her without being asked and had no other experience of another
person anticipating what she might want or need.
“Yes, of course, I can figure that out.” Olivia couldn’t think how to thank her
and feared she might cry. All she could do was repeat, “Of course I can do that.”
Then she added, “This was so kind of you, Mrs. Place.”
“Ain’t you never going to stop calling me that? You better, you don’t want me
to start calling you Miss Killion.” Looking pleased, but slightly embarrassed, Jettie made herself busy, moving things about the kitchen. “Well, I guess that will work out then. I figured you’d want them. Never was much for books
myself, but you – even when you were a little thing you always seemed to be carrying one around. So there’s your first batch.” She patted the stack of books.
“Good thing the rain let up. They hardly got wet at all. There’s about three hundred more where those came from. A few stacks of journals too. You can do
as much or as little as you please. You get tired of it, I’ll just tell them I don’t got as much time as what I thought.”
“I won’t get tired of it.” Olivia used her skirt to wipe the damp, reddish-brown volume she had picked off the top of the stack. Its musty smell reminded
her of walls of books and ladders on wheels.
“Ralph Waldo Emerson,” Olivia read the name of the author. “I’ve heard of
him.”
She set it aside. Next on the pile was a well-worn pamphlet of a play called
The Indian Princess. “Oh look, this is the one about Pocahontas,” Olivia said.
“Poke a what?”
“Pocahontas. You know, the Indian lady who helped the Pilgrims.”
“I know. I know. I was having you on. Even an ignoramus like me’s heard of
Pocahontas.”
“Miss Evans taught us about this play. Said it was interesting. I think I’ll start
with it.” Olivia set it aside and moved some other volumes off the pile.
Mrs. Place smiled and tied her patchwork apron on, turning away to start
putting the supper Olivia had prepared on the table.
“Look, here’s Charles Dickens. I bet you’d like him, Mrs. … Jettie.”
“Book written by a man? Bet he kills off all the women in it.”
