“No one is killing anyone,” I say, and offer my friendliest smile. “I am not dressed as a serial killer or Lady Gaga or an Amish person—though that was a good guess.” I nod toward the fireman, who I think said the bit about Amish people and TVs. He beams.
“I’ll give you guys one hint.” I feel rather than see the kids lean forward. And even though they’re just children, my cheeks flame up and I wish my chair would collapse and swallow me whole. I clear my throat. “‘Hope’—” The word comes out squeaky, like a mouse tittering. I try again. “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers . . . that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.”
The poem hangs in the air and the kids just stare, silent. Finally, one pipes up.
“Are you a . . . bird?”
I glance around at their tiny faces. I guess they’re a little young for Emily Dickinson. My eyes stop when I get to the dad standing behind the wheelchair. He’s looking at me, but he’s not just looking at me—his eyes are penetrating my face, as if he’s almost looking through me. It’s unblinking and intense. Maybe he thinks I’m a serial killer after all.
I quickly look down and pick up the first book in my lap. Flat Stanley and the Haunted House. “Let’s get started,” I say, and hold it up.
The air erupts in cheers and shouts for Flat Stanley. I’ve never heard of this character but apparently he’s quite popular. I silently thank Roger for at least picking out the right books.
LATER, WHEN THE kids clutching handfuls of candy in their tiny palms have dispersed through the stacks to find their parents—Louise found the bags Roger had stashed and brought them over, to my great relief—Madison H. pushes her stroller toward me and, when she gets close enough, says in a low voice: “I still can’t believe Donovan skipped out on this. The kids have been looking forward to it for weeks.”
I glance at the baby snuggled in his car seat, staring up at us with wide eyes, and wonder what it would be like to hold him. To feel the wisps of his eyelashes against my cheek.
“He said he had some ‘big, important meeting,’?” she says, making air quotes with her fingers. “Pretty sure that’s code for fucking his secretary.”
I start coughing, literally choking on any words I might say in response. My eyes dart around the room again, looking to see if anyone may have overheard.
“Anyway, good to see you,” she says. “We should get lunch next week.”
I stare at her as if she’s speaking Swahili. Get lunch. I wonder whether she means it or it’s just something people say to be nice.
“Sammy! Hannah! Let’s go.” I hear, rather than see, the kids whine in protest, their voices floating from behind one of the stacks in the children’s section. “Now!” Madison shouts. Then she sighs. “C’mon, we’ll get mocha lattes on the way home.”
Mocha lattes? Do children drink coffee now?
Yips of glee filter from the stacks and Hannah and Sammy come running out toward their mom. I maneuver around the kids and walk back toward the circulation desk. Louise looks up as I enter our workspace.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Her eyes look past me, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Oh dear, don’t look now. This guy came in a few days ago. He and his boy seem a little . . . off.” She turns around, busying herself with checking books in, and I look up—because who doesn’t look when someone says “don’t look now”—and directly into the eyes of the wheelchair dad. He’s tall, but not in an imposing way. And his hair is like a spice mix of colors, mostly nutmeg and cinnamon, with a touch of salt. It sticks out haphazardly from his head, as if just begging for a mussing by a grandmotherly type. If he didn’t have such an intent, serious look on his face, it would almost be charming. I train my gaze beside him on his wheelchair-bound son, struggling to push himself up to the circulation desk.
“Help me,” he says to his dad. He looks so small in the large chair, and his big eyes grow even bigger with the strain. My heart melts for him instantly—even if he did call me a serial killer.
“No.” The man looks away from me and back at the boy. “I told you I wasn’t going to push you all day.”
It’s so callous, so harsh, that my mouth drops open. Maybe this is some kind of new-age tough-love parenting, but good grief. The kid is handicapped.
The dad sets a stack of books in front of me on the desk but I make no move to check them out. I’m watching the boy writhe and wrestle with the too-big wheels. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up at me and then back down.
“You should have worn glasses,” he says.
“What?” I’m not even sure he’s talking to me because he’s not making eye contact.
“Big ones, with clear frames.” The words come out a little choppy as he puffs with effort.
“Do you need help?” I ask him.
“He’s fine,” the man cuts in, an edge to his voice that sounds sharper than necessary.
I ignore him and keep my eyes trained on the boy.
“Dorothea Puente,” he says in between huffs. He’s now about four feet from the desk. “She ran a boardinghouse and killed nine of her tenants over a span of six years.” He glances back up at me and looks away again. “You’re dressed like her. A younger her. But she wears glasses.”
“OK, that’s enough,” the man says, and then turns to me. “Sorry about that.”
He looks back at the boy, who now I’m thinking may not be his son after all, because not only does the kid have darker skin and silky black hair, but he talks with just a hint of an accent. He could be adopted, but the guy doesn’t strike me as the warm and fuzzy adoptive type.
“Cut it out with the serial killer stuff, OK?” the man says.
“No, it’s all right,” I say. “I’ve never heard of her.”
“Most people haven’t,” says the boy. “Female serial killers aren’t as notorious as male ones based on the stereotype that all women are driven by emotions and therefore can’t be psychopaths, who, by definition, lack empathy.”
The man sighs.
I stare at this kid, who’s now looking me directly in the eyes, and I’m not sure what to make of him. For one, he’s tiny. I’m not adept at guessing the ages of kids, but he can’t be more than eight, and he talks like a college graduate. And he’s wearing a three-piece suit. I didn’t even know they made three-piece suits for children.
“Did you know Jack the Ripper only killed five women?” I say, because he’s the only serial killer I really know anything about and for some reason I want to trade obscure knowledge with this boy.
The man’s eyes widen at me.
“Of course,” says the boy. “Everyone knows that.”
Oh. I change the subject. “Why didn’t you dress up for Halloween?”
“I did,” he says.
I peer at him more closely. I wonder if it’s some kind of beyond-his-years play on words—he’s being clever by literally “dressing up” in formal attire, rather than a costume.
“Picture me with a bald head,” he says, and darts his eyes up toward the man. “I was not allowed to shave it.”
I try to think of bald, well-dressed men.
“Bruce Willis?” I ask.
“Who?”
“He’s an actor. He was married to Demi Moore.”