Due Date

Five long years, he thought as the book crossed the counter into his hands. Moments before, his inked stamp poised above the date slip more out of reflex than anything else. He put down the stamp and turned over the book. The peeling, yellowed cover read, The History of Northbrook and its Founders by R. Camden Hughes. He’d waited a long time for the signal.

Jackson pulled the card out of the back and stamped a date ten days in the future. He scrutinized the man in front of him. The small, bespeckled thirty-something-year-old had a blond buzz cut and black-rimmed glasses that framed a pair of inquisitive eyes. The man offered a polite smile which Jackson returned with equal intensity.

Jackson returned the card to the back of the book, scanned the barcode, and glanced back at the computer.

 The last time the book was loaned out was five years ago.

One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days might have been a lifetime. Jackson didn’t want the job originally. No one does. Most jobs had fast turnaround times. Two or three days tops and then back to your life. Your real life.

Five years straight was too long in the field for his taste, not that he got a choice. Jackson never chose his assignments. In fact, it was in the name. He was assigned a job. He did what he was told.

 Jackson’s gaze swept over the library. With her gravelly, grandmotherly voice, white-haired Velma Anderson chastised two boys in the kid’s section who’d made table forts with half a dozen hardback picture books.

 In reference, Matt Roberts handed a stack of dogeared magazines to a young mother rocking a sleeping toddler in a stroller. 

Jackson took a deep breath and savored the earthy smell of wood pulp and home-cooked meals that marinated the air at the crossroads of thought and flesh and bone.

He’d miss both his coworkers. But his job was nearly done.

For the better part of half a decade, he spent as a dedicated public servant. Mornings chock-full of adventures, like unjamming the night deposit drawer piled high and heavy or scraping gum off the bottoms of desks. Hours stolen behind a cart or bookcase enraptured in a story that ripped his attention away from his daily tasks. Or his nights gently waking dozing patrons before the automatic loudspeaker startled them at five minutes till close. In all that time, he’d masqueraded as a public servant. He’d mostly fooled himself. The dull satisfaction of an honest day’s work lulled him to bed like no pill had ever managed.

Jackson swiped the white plastic library card. Greggory Nichols’s name, address, and phone number flashed across the screen. Jackson recognized the address. It was only a few blocks down from the apartment he rented. The bottom of the computer screen blinked. 

Ten more books arrived.

“I see you ordered more online. They just came in from our sister libraries. Do you want to pick them up now?” Jackson asked.

Nichols nodded, preoccupied with something on his phone.

Jackson entered a small doorway behind the counter that led to shelves and shelves of pre-ordered library books awaiting patrons.

The man at the counter was texting something madly, and Jackson observed him carefully. He didn’t look old enough to be a professor, maybe a journalist. A journalist would be the worst-case scenario.

Jackson scanned and added due slips to the back of each book as he regarded the man in front of him wordlessly. Jackson was hired because he was someone who never questioned anything and did what he was told well. Jackson reached under the counter and added the books into a reinforced paper bag per his training. It was library policy that anything over five books required a tote bag either supplied by the patron or the library itself. Jackson remembered the head librarian sharing a story about someone tripping and falling after navigating the parking lot with arms full of reference materials.

Jackson turned a few pages of the book while the man typed on his phone. The only thing Jackson knew was he’d be activated by whoever checked out The History of Northbrook and its Founders by R. Camden Hughes.

 Jackson, the man who never asked questions, was suddenly full of them. What was so special about this book? Was there a major town cover-up? Secret notes in the margin? A code scribbled on a random page? A town scandal hushed up and buried with the conspirators?

The unblemished pages were as unremarkable as the man in front of him. Photo after photo of sour-faced pioneers in black and white and shots of ramshackle buildings bulldozed years ago covered the pages. More mystery wrapped in that yellowed book than the three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the fiction section. What really killed him was he’d never know why. The word why had always just been a letter that came before X in his life, and now he was up to his neck in questions. Questions he knew he’d never have the answer to.

Jackson slid the bag of books across the counter to the inattentive man.

“Thanks,” the man said, patting the bag, “I can’t wait to read these.”

Jackson bit his lip and couldn’t help but add. “I hope you find time to.”

The man smiled a wide, infectious smile that Jackson didn’t have the heart to return.

“I always read my library books. And I always bring them back before they’re due.” The man added before he heaved the bag off the counter and waved as he strode through the automatic doors.

Jackson had more questions than answers. Only two certainties echoed like a couple of out-of-date encyclopedias tossed in an empty dumpster.

The patron would never live to see the date stamped on the back of the book. And The History of Northbrook and its Founders by R. Camden Hughes would be returned to the Northbrook Library before Greggory Roberts reached room temperature.