in the branch’s
jurisdiction, but beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be a consistent method of filing.
In the end, only Librarians can navigate these stacks.
Today Roland leads me through the atrium, then down the sixth wing, through several
smaller corridors, across a courtyard, and up a short set of wooden steps before finally
coming to a stop in a spacious reading room. A red rug covers most of the floor, and
chairs are tucked into corners; but it is, for the most part, a grid of drawers.
Each drawer’s face is roughly the size of a coffin’s end.
Roland brings his hand gently against one. Above his fingers I can see the white placard
in its copper holder. Below the copper holder is a keyhole.
And then Roland turns away.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he passes.
“Your key won’t work,” he says.
“I know.”
“It’s not him,” he adds softly. “Not really.”
“I know,” I say, already stepping up to the drawer. My fingers hover over the name.
BISHOP, BENJAMIN GEORGE
2003–2013
FIVE
I TRACE MY FINGERS over the dates, and it is last year again and I’m sitting in one of those hospital
chairs that look like they might actually be comfortable but they’re not because there’s
nothing comfortable about hospitals. Da has been gone three years. I am fifteen now,
and Ben is ten, and he’s dead.
The cops are talking to Dad and the doctor is telling Mom that Ben died on impact,
and that word— impact —makes me turn and retch into one of the hospital’s gray bins.
The doctor tries to say there wasn’t time to feel it, but that’s not true. Mom feels
it. Dad feels it. I feel it. I feel like my skeleton is being ripped through my skin,
and I wrap my arms around my ribs to hold it in. I walked with him, all the way to
the corner of Lincoln and Smith like always, and he drew a stick-figure Ben on my
hand like always and I drew a stick-figure Mac on his like always and he told me it
didn’t even look like a human being and I told him it wasn’t and he told me I was
weird and I told him he was late for school.
I can see the black scribble on the back of his hand through the white sheet. The
sheet doesn’t rise and fall, not one small bit, and I can’t take my eyes off it as
Mom and Dad and the doctors talk and there is crying and words and I have neither
because I’m focusing on the fact that I will see him again. I twist my ring, a spot
of silver above black fingerless knit gloves that run to my elbows because I cannot
cannot cannot look at the stick-figure Ben on the back of my hand. I twist the ring
and run my thumb over the grooves and tell myself that it’s okay. It’s not okay, of
course.
Ben is ten and he’s dead. But he’s not gone. Not for me.
Hours later, after we get home from the hospital, three weak instead of four strong,
I climb out my window and run down dark streets to the Narrows door in the alley behind
the butcher’s.
Lisa is on duty at the desk in the Archive, and I ask her to take me to Ben. When
she tries to tell me that it’s not possible, I order her to show me the way; and when
she still says no, I take off running. I run for hours through the corridors and rooms
and courtyards of the Archive, even though I have no idea where I’m going. I run as
if I’ll just know where Ben is, the way the Librarians know where things are, but
I don’t. I run past stacks and columns and rows and walls of names and dates in small
black ink.
I run forever.
I run until Roland grabs my arm and shoves me into a side room, and there on the far
wall halfway up, I see his name. Roland lets go of me long enough to turn and close
the door, and that’s when I see the keyhole beneath Ben’s dates. It’s not even the
same size or shape as my key, but I still rip the cord from my throat and force the
key in. It doesn’t turn. Of course it doesn’t turn. I try again and again.
I bang on the cabinet to wake
jurisdiction, but beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be a consistent method of filing.
In the end, only Librarians can navigate these stacks.
Today Roland leads me through the atrium, then down the sixth wing, through several
smaller corridors, across a courtyard, and up a short set of wooden steps before finally
coming to a stop in a spacious reading room. A red rug covers most of the floor, and
chairs are tucked into corners; but it is, for the most part, a grid of drawers.
Each drawer’s face is roughly the size of a coffin’s end.
Roland brings his hand gently against one. Above his fingers I can see the white placard
in its copper holder. Below the copper holder is a keyhole.
And then Roland turns away.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he passes.
“Your key won’t work,” he says.
“I know.”
“It’s not him,” he adds softly. “Not really.”
“I know,” I say, already stepping up to the drawer. My fingers hover over the name.
BISHOP, BENJAMIN GEORGE
2003–2013
FIVE
I TRACE MY FINGERS over the dates, and it is last year again and I’m sitting in one of those hospital
chairs that look like they might actually be comfortable but they’re not because there’s
nothing comfortable about hospitals. Da has been gone three years. I am fifteen now,
and Ben is ten, and he’s dead.
The cops are talking to Dad and the doctor is telling Mom that Ben died on impact,
and that word— impact —makes me turn and retch into one of the hospital’s gray bins.
The doctor tries to say there wasn’t time to feel it, but that’s not true. Mom feels
it. Dad feels it. I feel it. I feel like my skeleton is being ripped through my skin,
and I wrap my arms around my ribs to hold it in. I walked with him, all the way to
the corner of Lincoln and Smith like always, and he drew a stick-figure Ben on my
hand like always and I drew a stick-figure Mac on his like always and he told me it
didn’t even look like a human being and I told him it wasn’t and he told me I was
weird and I told him he was late for school.
I can see the black scribble on the back of his hand through the white sheet. The
sheet doesn’t rise and fall, not one small bit, and I can’t take my eyes off it as
Mom and Dad and the doctors talk and there is crying and words and I have neither
because I’m focusing on the fact that I will see him again. I twist my ring, a spot
of silver above black fingerless knit gloves that run to my elbows because I cannot
cannot cannot look at the stick-figure Ben on the back of my hand. I twist the ring
and run my thumb over the grooves and tell myself that it’s okay. It’s not okay, of
course.
Ben is ten and he’s dead. But he’s not gone. Not for me.
Hours later, after we get home from the hospital, three weak instead of four strong,
I climb out my window and run down dark streets to the Narrows door in the alley behind
the butcher’s.
Lisa is on duty at the desk in the Archive, and I ask her to take me to Ben. When
she tries to tell me that it’s not possible, I order her to show me the way; and when
she still says no, I take off running. I run for hours through the corridors and rooms
and courtyards of the Archive, even though I have no idea where I’m going. I run as
if I’ll just know where Ben is, the way the Librarians know where things are, but
I don’t. I run past stacks and columns and rows and walls of names and dates in small
black ink.
I run forever.
I run until Roland grabs my arm and shoves me into a side room, and there on the far
wall halfway up, I see his name. Roland lets go of me long enough to turn and close
the door, and that’s when I see the keyhole beneath Ben’s dates. It’s not even the
same size or shape as my key, but I still rip the cord from my throat and force the
key in. It doesn’t turn. Of course it doesn’t turn. I try again and again.
I bang on the cabinet to wake
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