Home Library

Harold sips his coffee and flips the light switch as he makes his way down the old wooden steps. The fluorescent lights struggle for a few seconds before finally illuminating the chilly basement of his Lawrence, KS home. Harold pauses at the bottom and breathes a deep, calming breath, basking in the stale air of the basement. Drinking his morning coffee in his home library is his favorite part of his morning routine before starting his shift as librarian at the University of Kansas’s Watson Library. He stares at the bookshelf and takes a moment to reflect back on the beginning. His small, meager collection has blossomed into a nearly four decade long body of work.

He had just collected a new book the night before and was excited to squeeze it in next to his other acquisitions. He sets down his mug of coffee and picks up his notebook. It is nearly full now with only a handful of blank pages left in the back. He opens the notebook and flips through the leather bound book. Pages upon pages, filled to the edges with sketches and detailed notes of the date, time, and location of his findings as well as the emotions he experienced during the hunt. 

He didn’t always keep a notebook but his therapist recommended it to help bring structure and understanding to his life’s passion. Although he wasn’t fond of the idea at first, he’s happy to have a written record now that he is older and more prone to bouts of forgetfulness. 

“It’s a shame that I didn’t get a bigger notebook. I don’t feel quite ready to call this complete. Perhaps, I will start a new collection in another part of the country. I’ve always wanted to visit the Pacific Northwest.”

Harold with his notebook in hand, walks over toward the sturdy oak bookcases that hold his treasures.

“Good morning, beauties. I hope you all slept well,” he says while grinning at the neatly displayed books. Notebook in hand, he starts with the fist book, To Kill a Mockingbird, which is labeled on the shelf with the sticker AMB, October 14, 1987.

“AMB, October 14, 1987. A classic. You weren’t as flashy as the others but you definitely kept me up at odd hours of the night. Check,” Harold proclaims to no one but himself while tracing an imaginary checkmark on the page with his finger. He directs his attention to the next book on the shelf, The Divine Comedy. “BET, July 5, 1993. Ah, what curious one you were. Unforgettable. I don’t think I’ll ever see one like you again. Check.”

Harold continues his routine, stopping to admire each book while referencing his notes from his journal. He pauses when he reaches the fourteenth book, The Catcher in the Rye. 

“I”ll never forget when I first laid eyes on you. I knew I just had to have you. You may have forgotten, but today is the 35th anniversary of when I finally was able to call you my own.” His eyes began to water as he reflected on that day. He gently caressed the drawing on the page, lightly following the curvy black ink with his finger.

Harold carefully picks up the book, something he normally doesn’t do in order to preserve the books as they were collected. He opens the cover to the title page and closes his eyes as he takes a long, slow sniff, relishing in the sweet scent of vanilla and blackberries that penetrated the pages.

“Oh, Fran, how I miss you so. Your long bla-,” Harold opens his eyes and stares at the empty spot on his shelf just below the spot where The Catcher in the Rye sits. Only a dusty outline of Brave New World next to the label JES, June 16, 2010 is left behind.

He quickly turns around, eyes darting around the dim basement. 

Has somebody been here?

Panicked, he makes his way over to the basement windows which were blocked out with matte black paint. Shaking his head, he checked each one for signs that someone may have been in here, tampering with his collection. With the basement padlocked and the key always worn around his neck, there’s no way anyone could have broken in.

“No no no no. This can’t be happening,” Harold mumbles. The voice in his head whispers to him as he checks under his desk.

Calm down. Maybe you misplaced it last time you were down here. Sometimes you get distracted and move on to other things.

Harold rushes to the cabinets where he keeps his supplies, sweat dripping down his forehead. No sign of the novel.

“Where is it?” he screeches repeatedly as he’s searching every inch of the moist basement. The inner voice grows louder.

I bet it was your nosy neighbor Jeff. He’s always poking his nose around in people’s business.

“Impossible! I keep the key on my neck at all times! I never let it out of my sight! Now hush! Let me think,” he screams.

Harold bent down, placing his face inches from the ground searching for any clues that someone has been in his basement. A footprint, a dropped pen, anything. No luck.

Harold sinks down onto his side, curling into a fetal position. He grabs at his chest and begins to sob. 

“Oh my God, my sweet Josie! How could I lose you?”

Don’t cry! It will be okay. Remember you still have a new book to add. Let’s get that one on the shelf, okay? We can look for Josie later when you’re feeling better. I’m sure she’s here somewhere.

Harold sits up and wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“You’re right! I’ll go grab it right now!” he shouts.

Harold runs up the stairs, skipping every other step, already forgetting about his lost book. He tosses the basement door open and hurries to his messenger bag. He unzips the bag and pulls out a worn hardback copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the smell of a peachy perfume following behind closely.

“Ah, my darling Rachel. I’m so glad to have you,” he whispers to the cover.

Back in his library, Harold places the book on an empty spot of his shelf and labels the spot REG, April 24, 2021. He picks up his notebook and flips towards the end where he finds an nearly completed sketch of an auburn haired woman wearing a KU sweatshirt sitting at a library desk. She’s sitting alone studying for an exam, unaware that Harold has had his eyes on her.

Harold pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket with the name and address he printed from the library’s checkout system. He picks up a pen and begins to write an entry beneath the sketch.

REG. April 24, 2021. 

Rachel Elaine Graham. Sophomore. 145 Ridge Ct, Apt 1066

Your fiery red hair is what immediately drew me to you. I watched you for weeks, patiently waiting for you to check out a book so I could learn more about who you were. I’m disappointed that you didn’t even read the book. I watched as it sat on your nightstand until it was due to be returned. Regardless, it spent enough time with you to become enveloped with your sweet, fruity smell. Peaches, I presume. I admit, you weren’t the most interesting subject I’ve had but you were nonetheless stunning. 

Harold glances at his watch and realizes his shift at the library begins in fifteen minutes.

Don’t be late! Caroline’s book is due back today and you wouldn’t want to miss it! I bet she smells delightful.