MUCH ADO IN 2022

The long climb back up to the ground floor was almost sad. When they emerged into the sunlit entrance hall, they were confronted by four children and two adults waiting patiently to check out. Traci started to apologize for monopolizing Sally's time, but she took one look at the clock and clicked her tongue. "Oh, first reading for the third graders starts in five minutes. Would you mind checking them out, please, Traci? I'll be back in a shake." And with that, startled, she was on her own. The children looked at her curiously, and the parents looked at her encouragingly, so, stifling a protest and bracing herself, she went behind the desk and began to check them all out. Fortunately there were instructions for EVERYTHING written in impeccable script next to whatever needed an instruction.

"I'm, Carl, and you are pretty," one small boy said, handing her a book which had won a Newbery Medal, probably when his grandparents were reading to their kids.

"Well, thank you, Carl, I'm Miss Smith. And I'm sure you'll enjoy that book."

"Welcome to town, I'm Emily Nader. I have a Michael Crichton book on reserve."

"And it is right - here!"

Sally passed though the entrance hall a few times, bustling from one wing to another. Traci tried to get her attention but was always diverted at the last minute by one earnest request or another. As closing time neared and the last patrons rushed to check out with their treasures, Sally stood back, watched Traci with a critical eye, and then walked over to the community bulletin board, took down a small card, wrote something on it, and pinned it back up.

Quite happy to be helpful, but now worried that she might be late for dinner, Traci stood up as Sally closed the door behind the last person. "That went very well, dear. Thank you for all of your help."

"Oh, you are very welcome. Libraries were like second homes growing up. When your father is a professor of engineering and your mother is a professor of English literature, it's kind of a given."

Traci walked to the door as Sally stood there expectantly. She glanced at the card on the bulletin board.

It read:

Assistant Librarian Needed

Part-Time, Very Flexible Hours

Literate, Intelligent, responsible person a must.

Sally had written TAKEN across the advertisement.

Startled, Traci started to say something when Sally smiled at her, handed her a key and said. "Here is a key, dear. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I am sure Eileen will let you out a little early. And pick hours to read to kids on Saturday. Library meetings second Tuesday of the month. The Henderson endowment provides for $25 an hour. I called Adele, and she is holding dinner for you, and delighted to hear you like her floor lines in the stacks."

"Well, I...," Traci began, desperately.

"Hush, it would be a sacrilege to let that meatloaf get cold. And if you manage to steal that recipe, half the women in town would pay you for it."

And with that, Traci found herself standing outside, with the courtyard's solar-powered lights holding the rapidly deepening twilight at bay. Her car sat at the end of the slate walk on the side of Main Street. Slightly bemused and befuddled, happy but with just a soupcon of put out, Traci hurried back to the Hawkins House for meatloaf.

The next Saturday she was headed back from the small craft meadery just outside town, as Mrs. Hawkins had promised to show her an old-fashioned pudding that defied description. As she drove, she saw a car pulled to the side of the road ahead of her, and an almost storybook little old lady looking aimlessly around as though lost. Concerned, she pulled to the side of the road, flipped on her emergency flashers and hurried up to the short, silver-haired woman, who smiled hopefully at her. Traci noticed, that except for the color, the car was a Honda ACCORD, just like her regular car, even the same year.

"Oh, thank heavens," the woman sighed. "I am glad you showed up, dear."

"I'm Traci Smith. I am kind of new in town."

"Oh, and I am Ruth Amherst. It is nice to finally meet you. I have heard a bit about you."

"What is the trouble?"

The woman suddenly looked woebegone. "A flat tire, I'm afraid. Cyril will be a bit put out, I shouldn't wonder. With me being late home."

"That's your husband?"

"Oh, yes. Fifty-five years coming up shortly. Or did we just have it?"

Traci heard the words and noted that Mrs. Amherst sounded quite a lot like her great-aunt Terri who was starting to have memory issues. She shifted gears. "You are late getting him dinner?"

She looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, no, my dear. Cyril cooks dinner. He will keep it warm for me, but he will worry himself into a tizzy if I am too late home. He does worry about me, you know."

"I am sure he does. That means he loves you," Traci improvised. She glanced at the obviously flat tire. A strip of ragged, sharp metal protruded from the rubber. Well, that tire wasn't going to be fixed in a hurry, she remarked to herself. "Would you open up the trunk, Mrs. Amherst? I'll change the tire for you."

"Oh, thank you, dear."

Traci opened the trunk and checked - only to find a void where the spare tire usually rested.

"Mrs. Amherst, you don't have a spare tire."

"No, I don't. It's on order. I do so have problems with tires."

"Well, do you have a smart phone?"

"Oh, I have no use for such things. But I do have my Alert Necklace," she said proudly.

"Well, don't push that button," Traci said earnestly. "We don't need an ambulance crew. We need Charlie."

She called Charlie. "Hi, Traci," Charlie responded almost immediately. "The part will be in tomorrow morning, so you can be back on the road tomorrow afternoon, and the tire distributor promised no more than another week and a half."

"That's wonderful, but I have a situation here. I'm just outside town on Route 347 and Mrs. Amherst..."

"Has a flat tire," Charlie finished with a long-suffering sigh.

"Why, yes. How did you know?" she asked, surprised.

"If there is any sharp object on the road in the county, Ruth will find it. The folks in town ought to take up a collection for her, since she gets every single flat tire that they don't."

"I was going to change the tire for her, but...."

"But she doesn't have a spare. I know. It's on order. It's supposed to come in the same shipment as yours."

"Well, what can we do? Can you tow the car in?"

After a long pause, "There IS one way to get her back on the road," Charlie offered, hesitantly, and she could hear the reluctance in his voice.

"What's that?"

"It's not the best solution, but I can take one of your car's wheels off and she could drive on that until the new spares and new tires come in."

There was a longer silence, and Charlie ventured, "Traci?"

"Yes, I'm still here. Go ahead and get the wheel off and get out here." She chuckled kindly at the woebegone look as Ruth stared at her tire and wrung her hands. "Even Ruth can't get four flat tires before the replacements come in, can she?" she finished, hopefully.

She could almost see the smile in Charlie's response. "No, that would be a personal record for her. We can be there in less than 20 minutes."

"Oh, and Charlie," she started.

"Yes, Traci?"

"Would you please have Mona call Ruth's husband and let him know she will be a little late?"

"Done. Be right out."

Traci put her phone away. Normally she would have let Ruth call her husband on her phone, but she didn't want either of them flustered, and Ruth looked so bereft that she figured it was best that she provide as much comfort and psychological first aid as possible. She sat down beside her on the grassy verge. She proceeded to make small talk, as she did with her great-aunt Terri, who she religiously called every month. She learned a lot about any number of people in the town, though she suspected that the information was years, if not decades, out of date.

Ruth's eyes wandered around and then fastened on the Mustang.

"That is a very nice car, dear. Quite fancy."

"Oh, it's not mine, Mrs. Eldritch, I'm just borrowing it."

She looked just a fraction more puzzled for a moment, and then shrugged it away, patting Traci kindly on her knee. "Don't worry, dear, I am sure you will have a matching one soon enough."

Traci started to protest, but shook her head instead. Explaining to Mrs. Eldritch the cost of such a car and the likelihood of getting one in anything short of decades on her salaries, was unnecessary. So she just nodded and said, "That would be wonderful." Then she stood up to wave as she caught sight of Charlie's spotless tow truck speeding down the road.

The next two days passed without much incident, though everyone she passed seemed to greet her a little more cheerfully and with a little broader smile.

And she ran into Tom Henderson at the grocery store, and they went up and down the aisles together, chatting. She commented somewhat cheekily on his dietary habits, which apparently ran to meat and potatoes, but with an admittedly good share of local organic produce. She picked up a few snacks and some healthy lunch items, as she didn't want to completely blow her paycheck - and calorie budget - by frequenting the small eateries near work too often. And she needed some odds and ends for the domestic life of an apartment dweller. She caught him eyeing the Mustang carefully as she put her purchases in the trunk, and he nodded approvingly at the unblemished side of the car. Then he bid her good day and was off.

Then the next day she was at the library, and a group of smiling children was hanging out at the desk asking, in what second graders would think was a stealthy way, what book she would be reading on Saturday, and how much they liked her voice when she read. Tom Henderson had come in for a book on reserve, and waited patiently as she helped the children, bequeathed a few hugs, and sent them off to the little roundhouse in the children's wing to watch the computer switcher put the train away for the night.

"You do very well with children," Tom complimented her as she pulled out his book, scanned it and handed it over.

She sighed and looked toward the children's wing with a fleeting, wistful expression. "I always got on well with kids, and my mom's friends would refer to me as, 'the little mother', sometimes, when I babysat for them. Someday."

"You'll make a great mom, Traci. And no one would need a crystal ball to see that. Have a good evening." Looking out the open doors, she saw him affectionately pat the hood of the Mustang parked at the end of the walkway along Main Street, before walking out of sight.

Dinner that night was chicken stew and biscuits, which Traci successfully only had one helping of, though not without a struggle. Fortunately the eight other guests, four couples, made certain there were no leftovers. Jason wasn't in for dinner, so Traci assumed he was at one of his later jobs, and also suspected that there was a helping of stew, neatly labeled, in the refrigerator. She helped clean up and chatted with Mrs. Hawkins as they watched JEOPARDY on the small kitchen TV and she helped prep for breakfast, which would be Belgian waffles. They kept track of their JEOPARDY scores with carrot sticks, and Mrs. Hawkins only won by two sticks.

When she left the kitchen, she looked out of the back window, and saw Jason Abernathy sitting on a wrought iron bench in the back garden. He seemed to be placidly watching the sun set over the hill in the center of the town cemetery. Curiosity getting the better of her, she strolled out through the back door and across the lawn to the bench. The man mountain appeared to be lost in thought. "Mind if I join you?"

He shook himself and glanced at her, then nodded in recognition and slid an inch or two to the side, though there was plenty of space left on the bench. She took the invitation and sat down. They both watched the crimson and indigo swirls sink and darken for a few minutes, and then she ventured. "You look like a man with a story, Mr. Abernathy. Would you care to share?"

He looked at her. It was not a sad, or happy, or annoyed expression; just thoughtful. "What makes you think I have a story?"

"I heard someone refer to you, nicely, as 'Jolting Joe', and everyone but me nodded. When I asked about it, they said that I should really ask you. So I guess I am asking."

He smiled slightly. "You know who 'Joltin Joe' was?"

"I do know that was a nickname for Joe DiMaggio, though I admit I don't see you as a ball player."

He shook his head slightly. "I never played baseball. About as close as I came to that was a shot-putter in high school and college." He sighed. "Let's see. Do you see me as having a Ph.D. in electrical engineering?"

She stared at him for a moment, almost mesmerized by his quiet, faint smile. "No, I wouldn't have picked that out."

"But I am. I was one of Tom Henderson's first employees. And I married a local woman. Gail Ernst. I had the illusion that I was a good husband; though it should have been clear that I was not. I did all the classic husband things, but took my 'provider' role too seriously, and spent lots of time at work, and lots of time at home thinking about work. I am ashamed to say that I neglected my wife, emotionally. She had an affair, which I did not even notice. I came home to find a 'Dear Jason' letter and her wedding ring on the kitchen table. She ran off with Don Settles to chase a more exciting life. THE scandal of the decade in a town like this. Their plans fell through and he abandoned her. But she didn't come home. I guess she thought she had burned all of those bridges, or maybe she was still determined to leave her boring, neglectful husband. She went through a succession of men who were glad to use her, but cared not one whit about her. I got a phone call one night, two years to the day that she left. She was in the morgue in Reno, Nevada. All they found on the body was her plundered wallet with her driver's license... and a small picture of me, with my name and phone number across the back of the picture. I drove out with Bob Keller, the funeral director; a long way to drive a hearse. I didn't want to ship her home as air freight; I brought her home. She is buried in the cemetery. South Section, Row 'H', Plot 47. Plot 48 is mine. I buried her with her ring on, in her wedding dress."

"That was quite a gesture for your ex-wife." Traci glanced at his left hand. He still had his wedding ring on.

For a moment his face darkened, but it was like a cloud's shadow on a windy day, fleeting. Now he was once again reflective with a streak of regret. After a deep breath he continued. "No. I never filed for divorce, though I could have. If she ever filed, I never got any paperwork. So she died as my wife. I claimed her. And I watch over her. Fresh flowers on the grave; every Wednesday and Sunday."

Traci fought bravely to keep the tears out of her voice, and almost succeeded, as she said, "Joe DiMaggio was Marilyn Monroe's second husband. She left him to marry, and then divorce someone else. And then had a series of increasingly desperate affairs and romances. When she turned up dead, listed as a probable suicide, Joe was the only one who would claim the body. And he had fresh flowers put on her grave for the rest of his life." Jason nodded, looking at the cemetery as the stars started to shyly appear after the sunset faded and the solar lights in the garden started to glow.

"I was an emotional wreck. I was pretty much ruined for being a cutting edge electrical researcher for Henderson industries, though I do some consulting with Tom's company on occasion. I quit and became the town handyman; though I try to take care of people more than I take care of the buildings or grounds. My personal penance, I suppose. I have been custodian over at St. Giana's school and church for a long time. I keep busy to keep from being too morose. I watch over people. And when I die, there is an account at Annie's Floral Boutique that will keep flowers on Gail's grave in perpetuity, when I cannot take them personally. When I see her again, I hope she will accept my apology."

He sighed deeply. "Tom and Rebecca, and now Tom, have me over for Thanksgiving dinner, so Mrs. Hawkins gets a little relief."

"Christmas, too?" Tracy ventured.

He shook his head. "No, at Christmas I put on a huge white beard, stuff a pillow in my pants, and spend the day making Christmas fun at the Mariaville Orphanage. I have no children of my own, so I try to enjoy the ones who need it most."

Traci sat next to the pillar of quiet strength and infinite resolve, and grappled with the force of will something like that would take.

"Now, fair is fair," he said, with a faint smile, though not meeting her eyes.

Suddenly, her life, which had seemed burdensome and onerous, was reduced to the trivial. Part of her didn't want to offer up anything personal about herself. But he was right; fair was fair.

"I got my degree in graphic design. I have younger sister who married the Navy and is currently in Guam doing who knows what. My brother went to study in Italy, and met and married an Italian woman, and is still firmly planted in Naples. My parents travel... a lot, and seem quite happy empty-nesters. I was full of ambition and drive and, I admit, fairly undefined goals. I got a job in Chicago and sallied forth to make my way in the world." She took a deep breath of the air, heavy with garden scents that felt like an encouraging nod, and continued. "But the corporate rat race proved that I wasn't as ambitious as I thought, and that just working hard and producing the best work I could wasn't the key to success my mother claimed it would be. I found myself in a couple of relationships, but not too seriously, and then had to get away and clear my head before I became just another hamster on the wheel." She glanced up at his quiet smile, and he gave her a nod. "And then I was lucky enough to see an ad, and here I am. I - like - this town - and the people. I didn't think that a family could have more than 14,000 members, but I can see I was wrong."

Jason chuckled. "Tom is quite taken with you. And don't think that the entire town doesn't know what you did for Ruth. I think we would all kind of like to adopt you, if you'll have us."

Trace was taken aback, but returned the chuckle. "Well, I'm afraid the town cannot adopt me, Jason, as I have already adopted the town. Though I guess we can adopt each other." She looked up at the peaceful shadow of the hill. A few glows, here and there, made certain particularly beloved markers were not left entirely in darkness. "Does that mean I'll have my own little plot over there someday?"

"Yes. And if you are lucky your kids, and grandkids, and maybe even your great-grandkids will visit once in a while and clean the marker and tell stories that make everyone smile and want to see you again."

They sat comfortably for a while longer, and then, as the evening cooled, went inside to their respective rooms.

After she locked the door, she paused and stared at her bed. In the center of the bed was a notebook of fine, dark leather. Curious, she picked it up. Inside were four of Adele Hawkins recipes, in her neat, previous-century script. The meatloaf recipe was noticeable by its absence, but there was plenty of space left on the rings. A small sticky note on the first page read, "Secret." With the reverence due a nearly sacred object, she pulled her lockbox from under her bed, nestled the binder under her birth certificate, passport, and a few hundred dollars in emergency cash, and slid it back under the bed.

She went to bed with the curtains pulled back and the gentle night glow of the town watching over her.

Her phone buzzed one morning as she tweaked on the placement of the centerpiece picture of a poster advertising the town's run to support breast cancer research. It was Charlie.