staff didn’t have time for in these days of not enough paid staff. Like the other Community Volunteers, she was old, well over sixty, possibly over seventy. Unlike the other Community Volunteers, she was something of a character. That was why the children had nicknamed her The Library Lady.
“I know it’s none of my business,” The Library Lady was saying, “and I know it’s a new day and age and all of that, but I still think it wasn’t right. I mean, right there in the woman’s own bank. Do you think that makes sense, a woman owning a bank?”
“I don’t know,” Glinda said. The truth of it was, she didn’t have the faintest idea what Barbara was talking about. She never did. She picked up her keys and started for the stacks. There were a set of closets back there that had to be checked and locked, and a storeroom with doors to both the inside and the out. She cast a quick glance at the great sheets of plate glass that made up the doors and windows of the library’s front entrance. They were covered with shamrocks cut from white construction paper and dusted with green glitter and paste, the work of the half dozen four-year-olds who came every week to Story Hour. Glinda wondered if she should take them down and put them in her tote bag to preserve them, and decided against it. There were too many of them and there wasn’t enough time.
“The thing is,” The Library Lady said, “I don’t know what to do about it. In the old days I would have told Father and that would have taken care of it. I suppose I could tell Father now. It’s just that Father Fitzsimmons is so—young.”
Father Fitzsimmons was forty-six, but Glinda knew what the woman meant. There was a touch of naïveté about him that was disconcerting at times. Glinda got to the back of the stacks and the first of the closets and opened up to check. It was full of Story Hour supplies and green metal folding chairs, folded up. Glinda shut the door again and went for her keys.
“What were you doing in the bank on a Thursday?” she asked The Library Lady. “What were you doing in a bank at all? I thought Father Doherty got it all straightened out for you, having your check direct deposited.”
“Oh, he did, Miss Daniels, he did. I suppose I could tell Father Doherty about this. He wouldn’t be shocked. But it’s not his parish, then, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“I was putting in a little check from my daughter in Albany. She sent me twenty-five dollars. Did I tell you about my daughter in Albany?”
“Yes,” Glinda said, “you did.” Actually, Glinda knew The Library Lady’s daughter in Albany. They had graduated in the same class from St. Margaret’s Academy. It was Glinda’s personal opinion, and the opinion of practically everyone else in town, that Jennifer Keel was a world-class shit. That was the only explanation anyone had for why Jennifer would let her mother live alone in Maryville on Social Security and unpredictably scattered twenty-five-dollar checks, while Jennifer played Up and Coming Legislative Aide in Albany with a Maserati and a closet full of Ralph Lauren Polo. Glinda got to the second closet, checked it out—it was full of clear plastic dust jacket covers, enough to last a million years or more—and went on down the line.
“You should have told one of us you had the check,” Glinda said. “We’d have gone to the bank for you.”
“Oh, I know you would have, dear, you’re all very nice, but I didn’t have anything to do this morning and I like to walk. And I don’t think those boys would bother me in broad daylight, do you?”
Yes, as a matter of fact, Glinda did. It wasn’t the time or place to say so. “It’s been terrible weather out there all morning,” she said instead. “It wasn’t such a good idea to go out when you could catch a cold.”
“But I was going to go out anyway. I was going to come here.”
“Well, in a few moments you’re going to go up to Iggy Loy with me and
“I know it’s none of my business,” The Library Lady was saying, “and I know it’s a new day and age and all of that, but I still think it wasn’t right. I mean, right there in the woman’s own bank. Do you think that makes sense, a woman owning a bank?”
“I don’t know,” Glinda said. The truth of it was, she didn’t have the faintest idea what Barbara was talking about. She never did. She picked up her keys and started for the stacks. There were a set of closets back there that had to be checked and locked, and a storeroom with doors to both the inside and the out. She cast a quick glance at the great sheets of plate glass that made up the doors and windows of the library’s front entrance. They were covered with shamrocks cut from white construction paper and dusted with green glitter and paste, the work of the half dozen four-year-olds who came every week to Story Hour. Glinda wondered if she should take them down and put them in her tote bag to preserve them, and decided against it. There were too many of them and there wasn’t enough time.
“The thing is,” The Library Lady said, “I don’t know what to do about it. In the old days I would have told Father and that would have taken care of it. I suppose I could tell Father now. It’s just that Father Fitzsimmons is so—young.”
Father Fitzsimmons was forty-six, but Glinda knew what the woman meant. There was a touch of naïveté about him that was disconcerting at times. Glinda got to the back of the stacks and the first of the closets and opened up to check. It was full of Story Hour supplies and green metal folding chairs, folded up. Glinda shut the door again and went for her keys.
“What were you doing in the bank on a Thursday?” she asked The Library Lady. “What were you doing in a bank at all? I thought Father Doherty got it all straightened out for you, having your check direct deposited.”
“Oh, he did, Miss Daniels, he did. I suppose I could tell Father Doherty about this. He wouldn’t be shocked. But it’s not his parish, then, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“I was putting in a little check from my daughter in Albany. She sent me twenty-five dollars. Did I tell you about my daughter in Albany?”
“Yes,” Glinda said, “you did.” Actually, Glinda knew The Library Lady’s daughter in Albany. They had graduated in the same class from St. Margaret’s Academy. It was Glinda’s personal opinion, and the opinion of practically everyone else in town, that Jennifer Keel was a world-class shit. That was the only explanation anyone had for why Jennifer would let her mother live alone in Maryville on Social Security and unpredictably scattered twenty-five-dollar checks, while Jennifer played Up and Coming Legislative Aide in Albany with a Maserati and a closet full of Ralph Lauren Polo. Glinda got to the second closet, checked it out—it was full of clear plastic dust jacket covers, enough to last a million years or more—and went on down the line.
“You should have told one of us you had the check,” Glinda said. “We’d have gone to the bank for you.”
“Oh, I know you would have, dear, you’re all very nice, but I didn’t have anything to do this morning and I like to walk. And I don’t think those boys would bother me in broad daylight, do you?”
Yes, as a matter of fact, Glinda did. It wasn’t the time or place to say so. “It’s been terrible weather out there all morning,” she said instead. “It wasn’t such a good idea to go out when you could catch a cold.”
“But I was going to go out anyway. I was going to come here.”
“Well, in a few moments you’re going to go up to Iggy Loy with me and
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