Today, to Bird’s consternation, the library is not quite deserted. There’s another visitor: an older Black man in the how-to section, not far from the front desk. Tall and trim, a gray beard, long gray locs neatly tied back at the nape of his neck. Bird dawdles by the cookbooks, out of sight, watching the man flip books open and shut them again, replacing them with no apparent interest in what’s inside. He’ll simply wait for the man to go away, he decides, and then he can speak to the librarian without being overheard.
But after nearly ten minutes of idle browsing, the man is still loitering there. What was taking him so long? Sometimes people came in off the street, Bird knows, just looking for a place to get warm. It’s October; each day the weather gets colder, and a full decade after the Crisis there are still plenty of people living rough—lingering on street corners, hunched on park benches, dodging police and the neighborhood-watch groups. But this man doesn’t look like he lives on the street. He wears dark jeans and a tailored tan blazer, shoes of polished leather; there’s an ease to his bearing, a comfort in this place—despite his apparent aimlessness—that Bird himself doesn’t share. Yet there’s a tension, too: as if he’s readying himself for a difficult task.
Then the man pulls a small slip of paper from his blazer pocket, inserts it carefully between the pages of a washing machine repair manual, and shuts it again. A bookmark, Bird thinks. Still, something about it catches his attention: the slightly furtive glance the man casts over his shoulder, the way he nudges the neighboring books back into place, lining the spines up so precisely you can’t tell that one has disappeared. Suddenly Bird remembers the librarian searching the books at her desk last time, the note she’d retrieved. On his side of the shelf, the man straightens, as if he’s made a decision, tucks the book under his arm, and heads for the circulation desk with a new air of purpose.
Excuse me, he says to the librarian. I found this book lying around. I’m not sure but I think—I think it might have been taken out of its place.
Bird can see him more clearly now. The black-brown of his eyes, the clean white collar of his shirt. The precisely trimmed edges of his beard.
The librarian looks up, and when she speaks there’s a tightly tethered eagerness in her voice. Thank you, she says. I’ll take a look.
The man sets the book on the counter. I’m not sure, you understand, he says. But I think someone might be looking for it.
He slides the book toward her, but his hand is still pressed to the cover. As if he can’t bear to let it go.
They’re probably very, very worried, he says. The words come out thick and sticky, as if he’s trying not to cry.
I’ll do my best to find out where it belongs, the librarian says.
Bird, peering out from behind the shelf of cookbooks, understands that something is being said that he can’t hear. He senses it more than registers it: a faint thrumming felt deep in the bone. No one would cry over a misplaced book.
I won’t speak of this to anyone, the librarian is saying. Her voice is so low that Bird has to strain to make out the words. Thank you. For bringing this in.
She smiles at the man then, sets her hand on the cover beside his, not prying the book away, just holding it, waiting for the man to be ready, and at last the man lets it go.
I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t, he says quietly. My brother and I grew up in foster care, years ago. They said our parents couldn’t provide—I was almost grown up by the time they got us back.
And then he is gone.
* * *
? ? ?
The librarian has just pulled out the slip of paper when she spots Bird and swiftly shuts the book again. This time Bird catches a glimpse before she slips it into her sweater pocket: jotted-down notes, what might have been an address, a name. The excitement on her face cools into wariness as she recognizes him.
Well, hello again, she says. You’re back. Did you need something else?
You said you could help me, Bird says. Last time I was here. You said—if there’s anything you could help with, to come back.
The librarian doesn’t say yes and she doesn’t say no. With the book still clutched in her hands, she studies him.
I can try, she says. What do you need?
Bird clears his throat.
I need to get to New York, he says. New York City. There’s somebody I have to see.
The librarian laughs. That’s out of my area of expertise, she says. I meant with another book. Or finding information.
This is finding information, he says. There’s someone there I need to talk to.
All last night he’d thought about it. His mother has left him this address for a reason, he is sure of it. No one else would have known about the cubby, let alone left something inside. Her letter, the story, this note: it is too much to be a coincidence. To Bird it has the certainty of a prophecy, or a quest; he feels it with the arrogant confidence only a child can have. This Duchess, whoever she is, will have something to tell him about his mother, and therefore his next step must be to go and hear it.
The librarian rubs a knuckle to her temple. I’m sorry, she says. I can’t really help with that.
Please, he says. It’s for a good reason. I promise.
But still she shakes her head.
I’m not a travel agent. And even if I were, I can’t help a kid run away.
I’m not running away, Bird begins, but she’s not listening anymore.
I’m sorry, she says again, and starts to turn away, and he decides to bluff.
I know about what you’re doing, he says, though of course he does not quite yet; he knows only that it is something illicit, something shameful or perhaps even illegal, and therefore it is a crowbar: something that can be used to pry, or—if it comes to that—something to swing.
She doesn’t answer but pauses, half turned away from him, and from the slight stiffening in her posture he knows she’s listening and decides to press further.
I saw that man, he goes on, his gaze trained on her back. And what you were doing the other day. The note in the book.
And then, steeling himself, he takes the plunge: I saw what you put in your pocket, he says.
It works. The librarian turns around, and though her face is calm and still, there’s a new tightness in her voice.
Let’s talk in my office, she says, and then her hand is on his elbow, pincerlike, and she marches him back through the shelves and to the staff only office again. This time, once they’re inside, she grabs him by the shoulders, her eyes blazing.
I knew you were spying, she says. That other day. I knew you were going to make trouble. You cannot mention to anyone—anyone—what you’ve seen. Do you understand?
Bird tries to wriggle free, but can’t. I just need your help, he says.
No one can know, she says. People will get hurt—really hurt—if anyone finds out.
Like that man? Bird says. A guess, but a right one. The librarian releases him, leans back against the wall, hugging the book to her chest.
He’s trying to help, she says. And risking so much just to try. Most people won’t even do that. They’d rather just close their eyes, as long as it’s not their kids at stake.
She turns back to Bird.
How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen? You’re old enough to understand this, aren’t you? People’s lives are at stake. Children’s lives are at stake.
I’m not trying to cause trouble, Bird says. His tongue is awkward and unwieldy, a fish flopping on the shore. I’m sorry. I really am. Please. You’re helping them. Can’t you help me, too?
From his jeans pocket, he extracts the paper with the address, now battered and wrinkled.
I’m just trying to find my mother, he pleads, and then it strikes him: this, of all things, might convince her. She’d known his name, before. How else, but through his mother? It is all coming together in Bird’s mind, the pieces zippering neatly together. The painting on the street, the banner in Brooklyn, the ephemeral flyers that dot the neighborhoods. His mother’s poems, the stolen children, our missing hearts. He can see it all, as clearly as a spider’s web misted with dew, the wispy strands crisscrossing into a magnificent, crystalline whole. They’re on the same side.
My mother is one of the leaders, he says, proudly. A feeling he’s never dared claim about her before, and saying it feels like standing full height after years of crouching.
The librarian gives him a look. A wry look, as if he’s about to tell her a joke she already knows.