Hattie's Storm

The frigid wind tore through the streets, kicking up the soft powder that dusted the sidewalks turning window panes into round, muted versions of their true shapes, before depositing it at the doors of the three story marble building at the end of the street. Save for the wind, all was quiet in that hushed way that only happens when the snow absorbs the sounds that usually bounce along the pavement and off the walls of buildings. Inside, an unusually high number of people peruse the shelves, lined top to bottom with words. Everything from fantasy novels 700 pages long to local histories, periodicals, and tabloids were lined in neat rows, wall to wall. Though they were not the usual sparse crowd, those who were blown in off the street left the reverent atmosphere of the library mostly undisturbed.

On the floor behind a cart filled to nearly toppling with nonfiction, sat a slight figure who looked precisely the part of the librarian. Her skirt flowed out onto the floor around her topped by a sweater that looked more fit for her grandfather than her. Wisps of her hair fell carelessly out of the knot on top of her head and she peered around them as she arranged each title carefully on the shelf.

Hattie usually wouldn’t concern herself with what library visitors talked about, but her cart didn’t seem to be getting any lighter and she felt as if she had been there on the floor for hours. This particular selection of books she was replacing weren’t even interesting enough to flip through any of their pages now and again like she was given to doing with subjects like historical fiction and romance.

Two windblown, chattering voices whispered quietly from a stack over from where Hattie sat. Between soft thumps of the books as she placed them on the shelves she made out a bit of their hushed conversation. “Don’t you remember that political scandal?” “How many years ago?” “…tabloid reporter…” “…too cold to be out and about anyway.” She made a mindless attempt to stick her loose strands back into her bun and reclined against her cart to take an eavesdropping break.

“Do you suppose they keep those kinds of public records here?” said one voice.

“Maybe, it can’t hurt to have a look around while we wait out the storm. How fun would it be if we dug up a new piece of information?” whispered the other, giddy with the prospect.

“The professor would give us an A for sure! Maybe we can start with old newspapers. Any idea where they keep those?”

“Upstairs and to the left,” Hattie replied automatically, then flinched at her own mistake before standing up from behind her cart and peering through a gap in the shelves. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear. Newspapers are up the stairs and to the left. Any particular time period or topic you’re looking for?”

The pair exchanged a sidelong glance with each other, clearly not having appreciated her intrusion, but after a pause the first said, “Anything about that politician whose wife went missing, you know, from maybe five years ago or so.”

Hattie tried to sound chipper, not like someone who had just inadvertently blown her own cover. “That would be more toward the far right of the second shelf. I can show you if you would like!”

“No, thanks.” “Nope, we will be fine,” they stumbled over each other’s sentences and hurried away.

She sighed and slid back down to the floor to resume replacing uninteresting books in their places alongside all their dull companions. It seemed to her that a day never went by where she didn’t make a fool of herself in some way or another. Last week she spilled an entire cart of magazines on the floor because she wasn’t mindful of the rough seam in the floor between the sorting room and the main floor. Before that she led an elderly lady with a walker on a wild goose chase through the library looking for the gardening books that had inexplicably all been checked out at once in the middle of winter. It never occurred to her that two days before she had laughed with another patron who came to the desk with a ridiculously large pile of gardening self help books and out of business seed catalogs. She glanced down at the book in her hands. Corporate Success: What Your Boss Won’t Tell You. She rolled her eyes at it before dropping it noisily on the shelf. Every day she didn’t get fired felt like a miracle to her.

With the wind blowing hard enough that it rattled the old windows, Hattie finally emptied her cart an hour later. She stretched her weary shoulders and blinked her eyes shut several times in rapid succession, trying to reset herself and focus on her next task. The only thing that happened was the blinking made her dizzy and she nearly stumbled into the shelf behind her. She clumsily righted herself and shoved three fingers under each lens of her glasses, rubbing her eyes, before grabbing her cart and starting off for the nearest coffee pot.

Of the many rooms and compartments scattered throughout the library, the employee break room tended to be the least calming place in the entire building. It housed computers, printers, small kitchen items, and was directly adjacent to the book drop room. Nothing could ruin a good cup of coffee like the startling clamor of machines clunking and books clattering into the drop bins. Many cups had been spilled due to a particularly noisy clerical task taking place unexpectedly. Rather than combat the unrestful break room during her down time, Hattie would wander the quieter floors which is how she found herself in front of the newspapers with her afternoon caffeine fix clutched tightly in her hand.

Almost as if in a state of dreaming she ran her fingers delicately along the stacks until she came upon those that the startled patrons had been looking for, which were sticking out in the haphazard way things do when they are replaced on a shelf that has not quite enough room for them. Mindlessly, she sat her coffee cup half-hanging from the closest flat surface and reached to tidy them, pulling them out in order to push others enough to the side to allow the articles to slip into place. “City of Montemay v. Sen. John Harpin Editorial, Where is Mrs. Harpin? Sen. Harpin, Innocent.” she murmured the title of each to herself as she shuffled and tapped the pages to straighten them back out.

As she turned to place the articles back in their rightful home, a particularly large gust of wind caught the knarled old tree outside the nearest window and plunged one of its brittle branches through the glass, bringing with it the bitter winter cold and a flurry of snow that had been resting on the ledge outside. A piece of carpet that she was sure hadn’t been sticking out before caught her heel and she jolted forward, spilling her coffee onto the floor as she knocked it from its precarious resting spot and scattering the pages left in her hands into the wind. Hattie watched in disbelief as a few pages drifted right out the window. She took a deep breath and pressed the heel of her palm into the bridge of her nose before straitening her glasses, stooping to gather the broken pieces of her favorite mug, and setting off to find the nearest cleaning closet, hoping she didn’t bump into any of her coworkers on the way there.

A leaf of paper blew along the exterior of the library, carried on the wind in gusts and bursts. It made its way through a stop light, a few brave cars, and one bicyclist bundled in so much winter gear its a wonder they could ride at all before coming to rest in a pile of light, powdery snow drifted up against a park bench kitty corner from the library. A woman in a black wool coat, hood up, and scarf that covered her mouth and nose, picked up the paper in a gloved hand. She turned to the nearest garbage bin, muttering about the indecency of people and picking up one’s garbage. Just as she was about to drop the paper into the bin, she glanced down to find a pair of eyes that were an exact mirror of her own looking back at her from the first page of an article titled, “Where are you, Mrs. Harpin?”

The woman snatched the paper back from the bin and quickly tore it in half, right through the woman’s face, before crumpling each half in a ball and releasing them into the garbage. She furtively looked around her, stuffing her hands in her pockets before striding away. Should she have looked up, she might have seen Hattie’s furrowed brow and cocked head peering from a broken second floor window, the handle of a broom in hand and hair lifting on the breeze.