Sanctuary

Trigger warning: Suggestions of abuse.

The instantly recognisable creak of old timber announced a new arrival through the doors of Bay City Library. My library. I had thought of it as my possession since the day budget cuts left me as its sole custodian. A decision based on how few visitors ever arrived in today’s age of instant information. I put aside the stack of old tomes I was defacing with fresh branding stickers, mandatory from the council to keep someone else in a job, and stood to greet my rare guest.

“…Can I come in here?” The young boy asked, with a weak voice, while he avoided my eyes.

“Of course you can,” I smiled, “Make yourself at home, the youth section is in the back corner over there, and you’ll find plenty of space to sit. The computers and internet are free to use as well. You’ll spot them at the tables in the centre.”

I knew which one he would choose, but I always felt the need to try and suggest the books first. He nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and hesitantly walked in, not looking at me once. I watched him disappear between the stacks. Just a kid passing through in the hour after the schools kicked out. Like so many had once done. But there was something about him...it was a feeling that settled over me sometimes, when meeting certain people. A sense of disconcert. A disharmony. As if he shed a wrong vibration into the air.

I tried to return to my task, but my eyes kept drawing in the direction the boy had gone. Having been irritated one too many times by my loose hair, I grabbed a scrunchy and tied it back in a neat ponytail, then wrestled my glasses onto my face. All too aware of how I looked exactly as people expected a librarian to present, I avoided wearing the things to the point of idiocy. Yet I wanted to see the boy in full clarity this time. I had been complained at by plenty of well-meaning family and friends that it was foolish for a young woman to work alone in a public building. But I refused to bow to fear. No amount of news stories about knife carrying youths would stop me trusting that most people were good. So, I ignored the nagging voice in the back of my mind that screamed to take no risks, instead grabbing a stack of texts and slipping through the lanes in pursuit of the only other soul in the library. I gazed up at the decoratively carved stone pillars as I passed, and marvelled, as I always did, at the craftsmanship of the ancient building. Yet the forged iron of the balcony railings, were not what I was watching. The boy had climbed the metal spiral staircase and was above, absently running his fingers over the older books that were housed there. I had planned to falsely shelve my carried items, but as it turned out, that was where they belonged. It tickled the orderly, proper part of me that gained so much satisfaction from an efficient job done and I whispered to myself about birds and stones while placing one hand on the banister. The heels of my smart, but comfortable, shoes rang out against the steps as I climbed up toward the young man. As I drew close, I received a wave of that same, strange discomfort. His movements and mannerisms were screaming at my subconscious. I didn’t yet understand what they were saying.

“Can I help you find anything?” I asked, in my best, and most neutral customer service voice.

He almost leapt out of his skin, “Oh! Sorry! Am I not supposed to be up here?”

“No, no. It's fine, this section is open for browsing. Though I am a little surprised,” I smiled widely, “Most lads your age would go straight for the computers.”

“Seen plenty of those.” He mumbled, “Never seen books like these…”

“There are some special ones up here,” I explained, “then again, some of them just look the part because they are old and are actually terrible. Unfortunately, even the worst, most tedious stories were made to last back before the modern presses made everything faster, and cheaper. Amongst them you’ll find some real gems though, plenty of classics. What are you interested in?”

“I don’t know…” he said, twisting uncomfortably in his clothes.

I hadn’t noticed until then. The stains at the edges of his shirt. The way his pants rode a little too high on his ankles. The scuffs wearing his black shoes thin. Not to mention the lack of a backpack that seemed a given for a school-age boy.

“Something…happy?” He asked, before intently examining the carpet.

“Hmm, happy…let me see…” I said, pressing a finger to my lips as I set down the stack of forgotten books, “Aha! I have just the one! Follow me!”

I rushed around to the back wall, where I pulled out a rather worn hardcover. Turning to gladly find the lad standing behind me, I reverently held it out to him.

“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn? What is it? Some kinda gardenin’ book?” He asked, his brow tight.

“No,” I giggled, “it's a story about a young girl, who has a hard life, but eventually, well…you’ll see. Give it a try. Its great.”

“Okay…” He mumbled, “Can I sit?”

“Anywhere you like.”

I went back to the afternoons list and busied myself around the library. I swept the wide flag stones of the ground floor. Processed all my returns and tidied the four whole books that I discovered out of place. I then settled behind the counter to check a myriad of emails waiting, hoping some of them would be uptakes for the various meetings and courses I had decided to run. The previous year I had hosted an entire series on creative writing to two old ladies and an unemployed college graduate, hoping to find a reason not to take a corporate job. He did not succeed. Time fled me and the next thing I knew, it was the end of the day. I began shutting down, and with my hand halfway to my keys, I noticed the young man from earlier, stood in front of the counter. He had been sitting so still upstairs and then approached so quietly, I had almost forgotten he was still there. He flicked an overly long fringe out of his eyes and placed the book he had been reading on the counter, pulling his hand away so quickly that I wondered if it had burned him.

“Are you open tomorrow?” He asked.

“Every day but Sundays!” I spewed, as I had a thousand times before, “Or you know, I can sign you up for a card and you can take this with you?”

“…I don’t have any money” He sighed.

“Oh, it doesn’t cost anything. I just need you to fill in this form and get it signed by a parent. Bring it back tomorrow and you check out any two books at onc-”

“No. Its fine. I’ll just come back tomorrow.” He said, rushing out the door before I could even lift the printed application.

I didn’t think on it too much that evening, nor did I expect the boy to return. Instead I performed my usual rituals of a defrosted meal for one, glass of cheap red and a substantial stint into my current reading list. Then I returned to work the next morning, going through the motions of another day, earning a few dollars only to rinse and repeat. When the door moaned slowly open again at quarter past three, my heart leapt. There he was. The elation of a return visitor, especially a youngster, was quickly dampened by the dark cloud he brought with him. The energy of the room seemed to shift, with only his presence to blame. I forced myself to smile through the weight of it and pushed forward the Betty Smith novel from where it had sat waiting. He took it with only a nod and disappeared upstairs, just as he had the day before. I gave him at least thirty minutes, before I ventured close and having seen the boy twice now, decided to introduce myself.

“Welcome back,” I said, “My name is Danielle. What’s yours?”

“Ryan.” He muttered, not taking his eyes from the page. He was sat bolt upright in the large armchair, both feet planted on the floor.

“Let me know if you have any questions about the story, it's an old book, some of the language might be more difficult to understand.”

“It's okay.” He said, so I sighed and turned to leave him to it, “Wh…What kind of questions?”

I turned back and smiled, pushing the friendly librarian aura as hard as I could. If I could reach just one young mind every now and then, I could consider myself some kind of success. Lord knew, it was the only satisfaction I could tease from the empty building anymore.

“Well, the more you read, the more you will start to notice that a story often has more meanings than the obvious one presented on the surface. There will be hints, allusions and inferences to the inner workings of the characters or setting. Things that the words will never tell you, but you feel and assume from the empty space.”

Ryan was thoughtful for a moment, then looked up at me, for the very first time.

“Like how someone can tell you something, but they actually mean something else. And you don’t find out ‘til they get mad? Then you know next time, to do what they actually wanted you to do? You gotta learn to understand what they really mean, even if they don’t really know themselves?”

I pursed my lips and studied him for a moment, noting the sadness in his eyes.

“Yes, Ryan, that would be a good example.”

“Okay…I’ll tell you if I think of any questions like that.” He said, turning back to the pages. I left him alone.

Every day that week he arrived straight from school, grabbed his book and retreated to the upper balcony. He never brought anything or anyone with him. No pack, no wallet or keys, no lunchbox. I began to think more on that and so started leaving snacks out by his chair before he arrived; chips, drinks and chocolates, pretending it was a standard thing. They were always gone by the time he left. We had short, passing conversations and to my surprise he did ask the occasional question about the characters in the book. When he finally closed the back cover, I asked him if he had enjoyed it.

“I was confused at the beginning,” He said, “It seemed a bit boring. Just a normal person's life. But then at the end I liked it. I can see why you said it was happy.”

Just a normal person's life? A poverty induced existence of abuse and loss?

I sat down in the chair next to him, something I had never dared, for fear it would scare him away. Usually, I absently chatted to him while imitating some important task nearby.

“Ryan. That book taught me something when I was a bit older than you. I learned that no matter where we come from, or our circumstances, there is always hope for the future. There will always be opportunities that cross our paths and promise a better life. All we have to do is recognise them when they come and be courageous enough to follow. It's something that proved true for me, with time.”

He reached away from me to place the closed book on the side table and pick up the bottle of soft drink I had left for him. From where I sat, I noticed his too-small shirt ride up. Underneath, his skin was mottled with yellow, descending into darkness. Purple-tinged bruises fled upward across the ribs that were mostly hidden by fabric. Only hinting at how many more there might be. I held my breath to prevent a gasp from escaping. Instead, I stood and strode over to another shelf, pulling down an equally beautiful tome. There was nothing quite like reading a book that felt old, heavy and real. I handed Ryan the copy of ‘Frankenstein’ and whispered,

“This one is about monsters. And men.”

“Cool.” He mumbled.

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow and make a start on it. I have a whole list ready for you, after you're done with that. There are so many worlds and lives you can explore in this place.” I said, forcing down the lump in my throat and denying the insistence of my eyes to wet.

“Can I stay and start it now? A bit longer?” He asked.

“You can always stay here. For as long as you like” I forced a smile to my face, then retreated down the metal staircase.

I hurried to the wall beneath the balcony and pressed my back against the cold stone. Out of his sight I pressed my hand to my mouth to silence any emotion that might burst out. After a moment, I wiped my eyes and swallowed my selfish reactions, marching over to the desk once more. I might have long ago given up on being a famous writer, of making any world changing discovery or influencing the masses with my standing in the world. But this? This I could do. I could keep the Bay City Library’s doors open wide, as sanctuary, to any who might need its roof. Maybe one day I could gain enough of the boy's trust, to help him beyond giving him a few hours of safety. For a while though, it might just be enough. Looking up, I watched Ryan take a bite of another sandwich, made by my hands, and flick open his next escape.