An Imperfect Librarian (24 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

S
O MUCH FOR MODERN MEDICINE
. The new man reverts to feeling like the old man after a few weeks into the new year. Mercedes and Cyril lend me their daughter's room while Cyril finishes renovations in the basement. “You'll be more comfortable in her room,” Mercedes says. Comfortable in pink? Pink carpet, bedspread, furniture, wallpaper and curtains. Sometimes, in my pink dreams, Norah loves me. I wake in the deepest pink of the night and remember the conversation at her house then bury my head in the pink pillow. On Monday, I miss her. Tuesday and Wednesday, I blame her. Thursday, I wish I'd never met her. “Perhaps that would have been better,” she said.

When Cyril finishes installing the electric baseboard heaters, I move back to my flat. “You can leave the heat on blast 24/7 now,” he says. The fly on the ceiling appreciates the change. I haven't seen him as active since the summer. The spider is tricked into thinking there's been a change in season and gives birth to a ball of eggs. The earwigs pack up camp to migrate to damper climes.

“By the time I'm finished with the repairs and additions, you won't be wanting a new place,” Cyril says.

The heater in the bathroom doesn't trip the breaker any more and I could swear the water is warmer in the shower.

Mercedes and Cyril invite me for a Valentine's dinner. Henry and Nancy are already there when I arrive direct from the office. We congregate in the kitchen. Mercedes pushes past me to access the stove, past Cyril for the sink, past Nancy and Henry for the fridge. The two lovers are glued together. You'd think they needed to be that close to stay warm. She's taller so her arm falls down over Henry. His arm is around her waist. He told me already that they were an ideal match height-wise because, when he faces her, his eyes are at her cleavage. On the counter next to me is a vase with two-dozen red roses. The card says,
Happy Valentine's, Goddess. Love, Henry.

Mercedes singles me out. “Where's Norah?”

“She couldn't be here tonight, unfortunately.”

“More turkey for us,” Henry says.

“There'll be no turkey for anyone if you don't move out of the kitchen,” Mercedes says.

“Where's the powder room?” Nancy asks.

Henry and I move to the living room. Cyril stays in the kitchen to help Mercedes.

“She'd be here with you if it wasn't for Francis,” Henry says. “You can blame it all on him. It wasn't enough that he tried to take your job out from under you. He took your woman as well.”

“He was with her long before I came along.”

“Defending him, are you now? You really are a fool.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to stop moping around like an invalid. Prove your integrity. Expose Francis for what he is – a self-serving, arrogant, incompetent, power hungry, loud-mouth cock–”

Nancy returns from the powder room, Henry returns his arm to her waist, Cyril returns with an ale and the conversation returns to rants about how City Council should be doing more to remove snow from sidewalks. Meanwhile, the invalid returns his hand to his pocket to rub two beach rocks between his fingers. Mercedes has to do a hospital shift at eleven. The guests are invited to leave early. I take the basement stairs down through the furnace room, past the broom closet, under the pipes, directly to my bed. Upstairs, the toilet flushes. A door closes and a car engine revs. Mercedes is off to work. Soon after, the furnace cuts in and drowns out the sound of Cyril snoring in the living room where he probably fell asleep in front of the television. I fall asleep thinking about how we danced that night downtown and the man in the cowboy hat sang about the colour of a heartache.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

T
HE PRIVACY POLICY RECEIVES FINAL
approval. The unit most affected is Digital Systems. There's a temporary freeze placed on my budget. My database access is curtailed. A committee headed by Francis is set up to oversee implementation of the policy. The committee will also monitor Digital Systems operations. In other words, I might as well be working directly under Francis. The union can't do anything for me because administration hasn't actually changed my position. They've merely reorganized the unit. Henry offers his familiar
I told you so
as well as his
Stand up to the prick
. Some days, I can barely get out of bed, let alone stand up.

I haven't talked to or seen Norah for nearly two months. That's not long enough for me to forget those six words that changed everything in the time it takes a pin-prick to burst a balloon. “Perhaps that would have been better,” she said.

“If I were you,” Henry says, “I'd be ready to chop off Francis' prick.”

“Go for it!”

“It's your duty as a librarian to report on employee fraud. There's nothing wrong with being a whistle blower. On the contrary.”

“‘Take the books you found in the hexagon, Carl, show them to the Chief and let him take it from there.' Don't you think the plan is slightly simplistic? This is not some play, you know, Henry. This is my life, my job.”

“Fine. Go to work for Mr. Hickey. Not much to look forward to unless you don't mind a job cleaning up shit after a dog.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if Norah gets hurt?”

“The only time you have any imagination is when you're imagining the worst. The best thing you can do for Norah is get Francis out of her life. Francis is the owner of the Crimson Hexagon. She told you that. Don't be worrying for nothing.”

“You said yourself the combat was unequal, that I was no match for him.”

“Yes, but you have me. And you have an opportunity. Feigned retreat: it's a common warring technique. Right now, Francis is so busy congratulating himself, he doesn't see that you're sneaking up from behind.”

“What if he turns around and catches me in the act?”

“I'm not a fortune teller, Carl. How do I know if and when the lightening might strike you? I'm surprised you're not written up in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for the amount of worrying you do. Trust me.”

Trusting Henry is the only option left. It's either that or work for Francis. I call Margaret to schedule a meeting with the Chief as soon as he returns from his winter vacation. Henry coaches me up until the last moments before I go to his office. “Your role is to plant the seed,” he says. “Nothing more. Once the police enter that hexagon, they'll find materials from the library. The administration will isolate the problem and Hickey will take the blame.”

We exit my office at the same time. Henry takes the elevator. I take the stairs to the main lobby then to the Chief's office.

“Hello, Carl,” he says. “How are you?” He's peering at the computer screen over the rims of his glasses. “Aren't they something?”

Vacation pictures are on the screen.

“That's the cottage we rented. The beach is on the other side of the hill. What an ideal spot. The antipodes of Newfoundland, did you know that? Halfway round the world. I miss it already. Pull up a chair. You'll see better.”

“Glad you had a nice trip. I'd like to talk to you about–”

“Look at
this
one. Wait till Deidre sees them. I only downloaded them off the camera a few minutes ago. I haven't adjusted to the time change yet. Did you ever see a more beautiful sunset?”

“I need to discuss–”

“There's another sunset. No, that's not right. That's the sunrise. Sundials in the southern hemisphere have the hours in reverse, you know. The moon is upside down compared to our view. There's the aurora australis. Or was it called aurora australias?”

“I have another appointment soon.”

“See how clear the sky is in this picture? There's less pollution than in the northern hemisphere. Population's not as dense, less industrialization.”

“I came here today because I want to inform you of theft from Special Collections.”

His eyes are glued to the screen. “That's a couple. His name was John. Now what's her name? Heather? No, that's not it. Karen? Paula? Darn!”

“I'm not talking about patrons idly stealing a book here or there. I'm talking about employee fraud.”

“Heather. That's it. There she is again in this picture. That's their place. A ranch. Horses. Cattle. Amazing.”

“I've been thinking of going to the media or the police with this.”

He draws back from the screen. “What was that?”

“I've been thinking of going to the media or the police with this.”

“Have a seat, Carl.”

I'm already sitting. “I'm here because I want to report on employee fraud. As you know, this sort of thing is not uncommon in libraries with rare and valuable materials like what's in Special Collections.” I take out my briefcase, open it then lay the books on the desk, one next to the other. I plug the hand-held light into the wall.

“What's this about? A magic show?” he says.

I scan a page with the light to show him the stamps. “These are Special Collections materials. You know as well as I do that they're not supposed to circulate outside of the Reading Room. They were in a warehouse not far from the city. What's more intriguing is that the warehouse was willed to Francis Hickey by the late William Myrick who you know is–”

“Slow down. Where are you going with this? What do you expect me to do?”

“In the short term, someone needs to do an inventory of Special Collections. In the long term, we need a more robust, internal, computerised, security system that protects against patron theft and employee fraud. If you don't act now this could turn into a major scandal for the library and for the university in general, a media field day where you'll be eaten alive. On the other hand, we can make it appear strategic. as if, in your normal efficient process of checking on budgets, you detected inconsistencies. You contact the authorities. They'll handle the messy part. In the end, one employee will
be judged guilty and one administrator will be judged in control.”

He gazes off into space, calm, pensive. The hint of a smile emerges. It's the reassurance I need. When I leave the office, he's already on the telephone with the President. I congratulate myself.

I SH known better.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T
HE CITY IS OPERATING IN
slow motion. The parade of blizzards leaves roads virtually impassable and sidewalks invisible. The Weather Channel describes it as the biggest news story of the new millennium for Newfoundland. Over four hundred centimetres have fallen so far and it's not yet the end of February. Snow banks line streets and bury parking lots. Two hundred tons of salt have been spread on city streets. The roof of a local shopping centre collapses, the number of car accidents rises. People are asked to venture out only if absolutely necessary. There's talk of a potential state of emergency. The concrete vibrates with the energy of the ploughs and snow blowers. The weather tantrum buries my car in a mound of snow. I dig it out with the shovel, go indoors for a shower then come back out too late to stop the plough from burying it again. I call a cab. The news is playing in the car.

The RCMP released a bulletin today announcing

the seizure of a quantity of books and papers from a

property near the city. VOCM has learned that some of

the goods may be university property. An investigation

is ongoing. One person has been charged with

obstruction of justice as well as assault causing bodily

harm against an officer of the law. The individual was

released on bail pending a court hearing.

That afternoon, I make coffee in advance. It's not like Henry to be late. I'm relieved when I hear his knock.

“I'm so thirsty, I could suck a mop.” He wipes his forehead then wobbles over to the stand. He tugs his shirt away from his body, reaches forward to pour coffee then stops to sniff under his arm. “Jesus, I'm roasted,” he says. “I just came across campus from the President's office. I was prepared for the firing squad.” He places his hands at his side, lowers his head and frowns. “‘Henry Kelly. We find you guilty of being a luddite librarian.' How was that performance, Carl? Bet you thought I was too much of a luddite to know what a luddite is, didn't you?”

He wipes his forehead again then walks over to his chair. “I had my defence prepared and rehearsed. You wouldn't understand it because you're brainwashed, brain-dead, brain-challenged or whatever the politically correct term is this week. It was a brilliant but wasted speech. ‘How are you, Mr. Kelly? Can I get you anything?' They didn't call me there to reprimand me. Exactly the opposite. The Chief recommended that the President place me in charge of inspecting the materials confiscated by the police in the Crimson Hexagon.”

“Why you?”

“Are you doubting my abilities, Carl? In their wisdom, they chose the espresso, the orchid, the tango the
je ne sais quoi
of librarians.”

“What does that make me?”

“The aspartame of librarians. The decaf version.” He laughs, coughs then wipes his forehead.

“Have you heard the radio yet today?”

He shakes his head as if too exhausted for words.

“Francis has been charged with assault and obstruction of justice.”

“I told you, you don't listen,” he says. “Norah's been charged, not Francis. The reporters were here talking to Francis and the Chief. They're both speaking on behalf of the university. I should have guessed there was something between them. I always wondered whose prick–”

“Screw Francis! What about Norah?”

“They had a search warrant for every building on that property, not just for the hexagon. You can be sure Francis had a role to play in that change in our plans. The officers were under an order to remove every sheet of paper. They wore white gloves but it wasn't because they needed to be delicate. I can't blame her for fighting them off if she had the collection you described to me. In any case, her friend Walter is going to bail her out of jail.”