The Secret Life of Wendy Milque

Can a lovelorn librarian find true romance within the stacks?

Note: This story parodies James Thurber’s short story ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.’ As Wendy Milque is a librarian, the original ‘pocketa-pocketa-pocketa’ has morphed into ‘book-a-ta, book-a-ta … book-a-ta.’

“Excuse me – Excuse me,” Wendy heard a young voice say.

Slumped in her chair, Wendy peered over the top of the Reference Desk. All she could see was a mop of blond hair. Sitting up, she realized it was a boy – maybe seven or eight years old. Leaning forward to make eye contact with the patron, she said, “Yes, may I help you?”

“Motorcycles,” the young patron said in a nervous but determined voice.

“Books on motorcycles?” Wendy asked for clarification, but also stalling for time as she cleared her head from her disrupted daydream.

As the boy shyly nodded yes, Wendy pushed her chair back, stood, and pointed to the children’s wing of the library. “Sure,” she said, shaking the cobwebs from her brain. “Right this way.”

The boy followed close behind as she led him to the Children’s Wing. “Cars, trucks, and motorcycles are all in the 629s,” Wendy explained as they headed down through the juvenile non-fiction section. “Motorcycles would start here – and run through here,” she added, pointing to several shelves.

The boy immediately pulled out a half-dozen books and quickly thumbed through them before selecting two. Mumbling a shortened thank you to Wendy, he turned and headed toward the circulation desk at the front of the library, leaving several books unshelved on a nearby table.

Wendy quietly returned all but one book to its rightful place on the shelf and took one large picture book back to her desk. Settling back down, Wendy wistfully studied each page as she casually thumbed through the glossy pages. Her fingers traced each customized bike as she flipped through a dozen or so pictures of customized Harley-Davidsons. Gently, she placed a hand in her lap and closed her eyes.

Book-a-ta, book-a-ta, book-a-ta – the sound of the approaching motorcycles was the first thing to catch Wendy’s attention. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw five, no, maybe six, Harley-Davidsons quickly approaching behind her. As they got closer, she deliberately slowed to allow them to pass single file – one by one. Wendy watched in her sideview mirror as each bike passed, their cylinders pounding, gently shaking her car, and pleasantly vibrating her seat.

The first biker was a large, hulking man. He wore no helmet, allowing his dirty blonde hair to flap wildly as he gunned his hog to pass her. Aviator goggles shielded his eyes, and a black leather vest covered his barrel-chested frame. As he passed, she noticed various tattoos adorning his exposed, muscular arms and a large, colorful club logo stitched on the back of his vest.

As each subsequent biker passed, Wendy saw that their actual outfits, hair, and physiques varied. Yet each biker wore the same matching club logo on their back. The other thing they all had in common was a customized Harley-Davidson. Each with their distinctive deep-throated rumble that sent shivers down Wendy’s spine, all settling, one on top of another, deep in her lap.

All too quickly, they were gone – down that long, lonely strip of asphalt and over the next distant hill.

“Wendy – Wendy, wake up! You’re daydreaming again,” Sheila, her co-worker, said as she gently shook her friend. “Were you able to help that boy?” she asked.

“Yes – yes,” Wendy responded slowly.

“You were daydreaming again, weren’t you?” Sheila questioned, realizing she had interrupted another of Wendy’s frequent fantasies.

Wendy didn’t respond immediately, turning to Sheila and giving her a vague smile, letting her think whatever she wanted. Snickering that she had received a positive response to her question, Sheila returned the smile and quietly walked away.

As Wendy methodically worked her way down through the stacks, re-shelving the returned books from the night before, she couldn’t help but notice a pregnant young woman studying the shelf of ‘preparing for childbirth’ books. Her discomfort was obvious on her face. As Wendy approached, she asked, “May I help you?”

The young woman hadn’t seen Wendy approaching and was startled by the question. Turning to face her, the mother-to-be said, “I’m having a baby soon – and I’m just trying to find some information on what I’m supposed to be doing. I mean, what should I expect?” Another pause before adding, with a weak smile, “This is my first.”

Understandingly, Wendy said, “You’re in the right section. Childbirth starts here with 618 and goes through 618.2 – right here, as she pointed to the end of the shelf. The young woman first tried to bend at the waist. Bending over became noticeably uncomfortable; she had to squat to study the spines of the books. Watching the expectant mother struggle for a moment, Wendy pulled two books from the shelf and handed them to her. “Here,” she said. “I think these should be helpful.”

“Please,” Wendy said, gazing lovingly into her young husband’s eyes. “Let’s make a baby tonight – I want a baby – please.”

Rolling over to face her, Wendy’s newlywed partner asked, “Are you sure? I thought we agreed to wait a few years. A baby is a big step. Are you sure you are ready to be a mom?”

“Yes,” Wendy said, her voice moist with emotion. “We’ve waited long enough. I love you so much, and I want to have your baby.” With that, she brought her lips to her lover’s. Book-a-ta, book-a-ta, book-a-ta – the bed springs began to sing … Book-a-ta, book-a-ta, book-a-ta.

“Wendy – Wendy, are you listening to me?” Ms. Mitty scolded.

“I’m sorry – what did you say?” Wendy mumbled, looking up and realizing the Head Librarian had been standing in front of her for almost a minute, trying to get her attention.

“I said Sheila is going to relieve you at the reference desk,” the librarian admonished. “I need you over on the circulation desk. We are down two volunteers, and re-shelving is falling woefully behind. Please go help them out.”

Wendy grudgingly pushed the heavy cart down one aisle of books, then up another, before turning a corner and finding an elderly patron blocking her intended path, intently studying a row of books. Wendy waited, thinking the woman would move, but when she didn’t, Wendy asked, “May I help you?”

Startled, not realizing that Wendy was even there, the patron said in a weak voice, “I need help with a legal issue. I’d go to a lawyer, but I can’t afford it. I was hoping I could figure it out for myself.”

“Well, you’re in the right section,” Wendy said, stepping from behind her book cart and approaching the woman. “What’s the issue you need help with?”

The woman paused for a moment and then explained, “I’m a widow. My husband and I lived in the same condo for over twenty years. The condo fees have always gone up a few dollars every year, but they more than doubled this year. I can’t afford it. I’m a widow on a fixed income – I can’t pay it. They say I’ll have to sell if I can’t pay the increase.” After a long breath, she was close to tears. “I have no place to go; it’s my home,” she continued, choking back emotion.

Wendy took her hand. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

“Edith Littlefield,” the elderly patron said, trying to regain her composure.

“Mrs. Littlefield,” Wendy said, now holding both of her hands tightly. “I can connect you with Legal Aid; they will help, and the fees for their services are completely based on your ability to pay. If you can’t afford anything, they won’t charge you – I promise.”

At this point, Mrs. Littlefield broke down and started crying. Wendy led her to the reference desk, offered her a Kleenex, and dialed Legal Aid's phone number.

“Your Honor,” the gutsy young lawyer, Wendy Milque, said as she rose to address the court. “My client is an eighty-year-old widow. She is a condo owner and has lived at Wellington Arms for over twenty years. Her condo agreement clearly states that maintenance fees shall never increase by more than 6% per year and that the condo association's books and records are subject to an annual audit. The audit has not been performed in over ten years. Therefore, the notice of the proposed increase of over one hundred percent should be set aside.”

As attorney Wendy Milque sits down, the strikingly handsome lawyer for the condo association stands to give his opening statement. “If it pleases the court,” he says, smiling first at the judge and then, alluringly, back at Miss Milque. “The Wellington Arms is over fifty years old and is in serious need of immediate repairs. The condo association voted overwhelmingly four years ago to amend the condo bylaws to allow for such increases to save the building and waive the requirement for an annual audit to save money for the needed repairs. I have the documents here, and I would like to place them in evidence.”

The judge signals for the opposing counsel to step forward and place the documents on his bench. As the young lawyer returns to his seat, he smiles again at Wendy as he flashes her a wink.

As the judge begins thumbing through the freshly submitted documents, Wendy jumps to her feet. “Your Honor,” she objected. “This is new information, and we have not had time to review it. We respectfully request a recess to thoroughly examine these documents.”

The judge looks up at the clock before saying, “It’s almost lunchtime. Ms. Milque, I’ll give you two hours. Court is in recess until 2:00 PM.” The judge drops his gavel and stands to leave the courtroom.

Wendy turns to Mrs. Littlefield and takes both hands to ensure that this will be resolved. Then, turning to face her opposing counsel, she says, “May I see you in private for a minute?”

“Certainly,” he quickly responds, unaware of the nature of the impending discussion but more than willing to pursue all options for a speedy conclusion to this case. The two lawyers move down the hallway to an empty conference room, and Wendy closes the door. Reaching out to shake his hand, Wendy states her case. “Counselor, we’re both adults here.”

“Yes,” he says, accepting her hand and shaking it gently.

“I’m sure we can come to some agreeable resolution to this matter.” Facing her opposing counsel, Wendy wraps her arm around his neck and, with an alluring smile, presses her lips squarely to his … Book-a-ta, book-a-ta, book-a-ta.

“The library will be closing in fifteen minutes,” the library PA squawked. Wendy struggled to focus on the wall clock. Six-forty-five, yes, just fifteen minutes, and another day of work will be just one more day in the lonely life of Wendy Milque. Another day in the library and one more day to walk home – alone. Alone to a dreary apartment until she leaves for work again the next day. Alone with her thoughts, alone with her fantasies – all alone just like every other day since the day she graduated college ten years ago.

It may have been all but preordained that Wendy would be a librarian. Raised by a single-mom English teacher, she never knew her dad and never had any siblings. Her mom rarely discussed her father and never made any effort to bring another man into the household. Wendy learned to read early, and since she had no one to play with when she got home after school, she just read. She was a ravenous reader and lost herself in every book she ever read. Sometimes, she would read a book a day when she was particularly lonely or depressed.

The painful memories of her childhood loneliness were starting to overwhelm her as she approached her apartment building. The sun had nearly set, and as she climbed the stairs to her depressing one-bedroom apartment, she failed to notice the hallway lights hadn't come on yet. Fumbling in the fading light for her keys, she also did not realize that her door was ajar – that is, until the moment she touched the lock with her key.

Ahh! she screamed as the door swung open effortlessly. She dropped her purse and keys and covered her mouth in pure panic. “What’s the matter?” a male voice suddenly said from several doors down the hallway.

Now more panicked than before, she spun around to face the unknown voice. With her heart racing and tears beginning to well up in her eyes, her brain struggled with the instinct of ‘fight-or-flight.’ Unable to move her feet, she finally managed to say, “My door is unlocked – someone may be in my apartment.”

The stranger, realizing her distress, approached slowly. “Hi, I’m Derrick – I’m your neighbor. I’ve seen you in the building for several years. We’ve never met.” He slowly moved toward her before saying, “Do you mind if I go in and look around for you – just to make sure it’s alright?”

Still covering her mouth with both hands, Wendy stepped back, allowing him to peer into her apartment. He gently pushed the door open and reached for the light switch along the wall. Clicking the light on, he pushed the door open and stepped inside cautiously. Wendy moved closer and followed him in.

Once inside, he turned on more lights and walked from room to room, checking for any sign of intruders. Wendy picked up her purse and keys and cautiously followed her neighbor into her living room, slowly closing the door. Her eyes were wide as saucers, and her legs were still shaking when Derrick announced, “I think it’s okay. I don’t see any damage, and nothing appears to be missing.”

“What did you say your name was, again?” Wendy asked guardedly.

He quickly walked toward her, stuck out his hand to introduce himself, and said, “I’m Derrick Amore – I live two doors down.” Shaking her hand, he added, “I’ve seen you around the building for several years. I’ve never introduced myself.”

Dropping his hand, she wiped several tears from her face. “I think I’ve seen you – at the mailbox – I guess.”

“Yeah – I’m sure that was me,” he said. “I apologize. I should have introduced myself sooner.”

“Oh, it’s my fault,” Wendy said, regaining a little composure. “Do you mind checking around with me again – nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

“Of course not,” Derrick said as they carefully searched the entire tiny apartment – the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom – the whole place. Nothing was out of place or missing. Wendy had never had a man in her apartment before. For that matter, she’d never had anyone in her apartment. She was a little uncomfortable with the unprecedented invasion of her privacy but felt it was necessary under the circumstances. Besides, she was a meticulous housekeeper, bordering on OCD, so she had nothing to be embarrassed about.

After the third comprehensive search of every square foot of the apartment, Wendy felt better. “Maybe you just didn’t lock the door this morning,” Derrick suggested.

“Oh no,” Wendy immediately protested. “I’m exceedingly conscious about locking my door. Both the handle and the deadbolt every day. I know I locked them both this morning.”

Realizing that he’d possibly touched a raw nerve, Derrick quickly backpedaled. “Huh, I mean, maybe the building superintendent came in to fix something or check on something. And didn’t relock the door properly.”

Wendy didn’t really buy it, but there was no other explanation. She finally nodded, accepting the scenario, though she was still nervous and didn’t want to be left alone.

“Well, I guess I’d better be going,” Derrick finally said, sensing that Wendy’s anxiety was subsiding.

“No – I mean, please don’t go,” Wendy quickly responded. “Huh – thank you for helping me. Honestly, thank you. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Derrick was now the nervous one. “Okay,” he said, happy to finally have had the opportunity to meet Wendy, wishing the circumstances had been better. Wendy presented wine glasses and a bottle of Chardonnay. Derrick sat on the couch as Wendy nervously poured each of them a glass of wine. Then brought out a Tupperware container of homemade chicken salad, a box of crackers, and a wedge of cheese. It wasn’t what Derrick normally ate for dinner – he usually ate out. This is what Wendy normally did: she sat home alone, snacking on a deli salad, cheese, and crackers while reading another book, night after night.

Over cold chicken salad, crackers, and cheese, Derrick explained that he was an IT manager for the local property tax agency. Wendy described her life as the only child of a single mom, her obsession with reading, and her current life as an assistant librarian. An hour or so later, the food was gone, as was Wendy’s only bottle of wine.

As Derrick tried to leave, Wendy immediately protested. “Oh no – don’t go,” Wendy begged, pushing him back down onto the couch. As Derrick sat, a little uncertain about his next move, Wendy leaned over and placed her lips squarely on his. It took Derrick a moment to realize what was about to happen, but once he did, he wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss deeply. When their first kiss finally broke – Wendy breathlessly pleaded, “Will you stay – please?”

Wendy strained to hear the book-a-ta, book-a-ta, book-a-ta – but there was none. All she could hear was Derrick’s warm breath as he nibbled softly on her neck. Wendy breathlessly whispered into Derrick’s ear, “Derrick, are you real – is this really happening?”