technology and Internet searches, I’d forgotten why I started. The love of books, of reading. There’s nothing a librarian likes better than sharing her love of words with a child. When I close the book, Bobby is beaming up at me. “Again!” he says, bouncing in his seat.
I put down Beauty and the Beast and pick up the bright orange Dr. Seuss. “Now it’s your turn.”
His face closes tighter than a submarine hatch. “I don’t read.”
“Come on.” I open the book, point to the first sentence, and read: “I am Sam.” Then I wait.
When the quiet stretches out too long, Bobby looks up at me. “What?”
“I’m waiting. It’s your turn to read.”
“Are you deaf ? I can’t read.”
I frown. “How about just the first word?”
He glares at me, his chin jutted out. “No.”
“Try. Just the first word.”
“No.”
“Please?”
I can feel his surrender. He goes limp beside me and sighs.
He stares down at the book, frowning, then says, “I. But that’s just a letter. Big deal.”
“It’s also a word.”
This time when he turns to me he looks scared. “I can’t.” His voice is a whisper. “Arnie says I’m stupid.”
“You can . Don’t be afraid. I’ll help.” I smile gently. “And you know what I think of Arnie.”
Slowly, he tries to sound out the next word. When he stumbles, I offer a tiny bit of help and a heap of encouragement.
“S . . . A . . . M.” Bobby frowns up at me. “Sam?”
“You read the whole page.”
“It’s a baby book,” he says, but a smile plucks at his mouth.
“Babies can’t read I Am Sam . Only big boys can do that.” I turn the page.
By the time we get to Green Eggs and Ham? Bobby has stopped frowning. It takes a long time, but he finally sounds out the entire story, and when he finishes, he is laughing. “I read the whole book.”
“You did really well,” I say. Gently, I add, “Maybe you could read with your dad.”
“No. I heard him tell my teacher that I needed a too-tor. That’s something for dumb kids.”
“A tutor is not something for dumb kids. I tutor kids in the library all the time.”
“Really?”
Before I can answer, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Bobby and I both look up.
“Come on, boyo,” Daniel says tiredly. “Let’s go get some dinner in town.”
“C’n Joy come?”
“No.”
The curtness of Daniel’s answer hurts my feelings—as ridiculous as that is—until I see his face. The question has wounded him. He is jealous of me—of Bobby choosing to be with me. I know a thing or two about jealousy, how it can cut you to the bone and bring out the worst in you. I also know that it is grounded in love.
“ Talk to him,” I whisper; the irony of my advice doesn’t escape me. Apparently a woman running away from a conversation with her sister has no problem telling others to talk.
“Come on, Bobby. They run out of meatloaf early on weekends. And it’s your favorite.”
Bobby gets up. His shoulders droop sadly as he walks away from me. “No, it isn’t. I like pizza.”
Daniel winces. His voice tightens. “Let’s go.”
After they’re gone, I sit on the sofa, listening to the dying fire. Rain hammers the roof and falls in silver beads down the windows, blurring the outside world. It is fitting, that obscurity, for right now, what I care about is in this lodge.
I have to do something to help Bobby and Daniel.
But what?
That night, I have trouble sleeping again. There are too many things on my mind. Sleep comes and goes; too often I am plagued by nightmare images of my sister and Thom, of the wedding invitation she handed me, of the plane crash.
But when dawn finally comes to my small, small room and taps on the window, I have only one worry left. The others I have let go.
Bobby’s Christmas.
This is a problem I can solve, unlike the issues in my own life. Here and now, I can do something that will make a difference in someone’s
I put down Beauty and the Beast and pick up the bright orange Dr. Seuss. “Now it’s your turn.”
His face closes tighter than a submarine hatch. “I don’t read.”
“Come on.” I open the book, point to the first sentence, and read: “I am Sam.” Then I wait.
When the quiet stretches out too long, Bobby looks up at me. “What?”
“I’m waiting. It’s your turn to read.”
“Are you deaf ? I can’t read.”
I frown. “How about just the first word?”
He glares at me, his chin jutted out. “No.”
“Try. Just the first word.”
“No.”
“Please?”
I can feel his surrender. He goes limp beside me and sighs.
He stares down at the book, frowning, then says, “I. But that’s just a letter. Big deal.”
“It’s also a word.”
This time when he turns to me he looks scared. “I can’t.” His voice is a whisper. “Arnie says I’m stupid.”
“You can . Don’t be afraid. I’ll help.” I smile gently. “And you know what I think of Arnie.”
Slowly, he tries to sound out the next word. When he stumbles, I offer a tiny bit of help and a heap of encouragement.
“S . . . A . . . M.” Bobby frowns up at me. “Sam?”
“You read the whole page.”
“It’s a baby book,” he says, but a smile plucks at his mouth.
“Babies can’t read I Am Sam . Only big boys can do that.” I turn the page.
By the time we get to Green Eggs and Ham? Bobby has stopped frowning. It takes a long time, but he finally sounds out the entire story, and when he finishes, he is laughing. “I read the whole book.”
“You did really well,” I say. Gently, I add, “Maybe you could read with your dad.”
“No. I heard him tell my teacher that I needed a too-tor. That’s something for dumb kids.”
“A tutor is not something for dumb kids. I tutor kids in the library all the time.”
“Really?”
Before I can answer, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Bobby and I both look up.
“Come on, boyo,” Daniel says tiredly. “Let’s go get some dinner in town.”
“C’n Joy come?”
“No.”
The curtness of Daniel’s answer hurts my feelings—as ridiculous as that is—until I see his face. The question has wounded him. He is jealous of me—of Bobby choosing to be with me. I know a thing or two about jealousy, how it can cut you to the bone and bring out the worst in you. I also know that it is grounded in love.
“ Talk to him,” I whisper; the irony of my advice doesn’t escape me. Apparently a woman running away from a conversation with her sister has no problem telling others to talk.
“Come on, Bobby. They run out of meatloaf early on weekends. And it’s your favorite.”
Bobby gets up. His shoulders droop sadly as he walks away from me. “No, it isn’t. I like pizza.”
Daniel winces. His voice tightens. “Let’s go.”
After they’re gone, I sit on the sofa, listening to the dying fire. Rain hammers the roof and falls in silver beads down the windows, blurring the outside world. It is fitting, that obscurity, for right now, what I care about is in this lodge.
I have to do something to help Bobby and Daniel.
But what?
That night, I have trouble sleeping again. There are too many things on my mind. Sleep comes and goes; too often I am plagued by nightmare images of my sister and Thom, of the wedding invitation she handed me, of the plane crash.
But when dawn finally comes to my small, small room and taps on the window, I have only one worry left. The others I have let go.
Bobby’s Christmas.
This is a problem I can solve, unlike the issues in my own life. Here and now, I can do something that will make a difference in someone’s
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